


Metanoia

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Hand of Thrawn Duology - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Clone!Thrawn, Clones, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Noncon is not between Pellaeon and Thrawn, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28803870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Eleven years after his failure at Bilbringi and one year after the Bastion Accords, Pellaeon learns that Thrawn's clone survived.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 120
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a remix of "Touch Has a Memory."
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too.

High society once adored Gilad Pellaeon; slowly, now that the treaty was signed, they were coming back around to him again. This was the thirty-second invitation he’d received in half as many days, but it was the first his duties and schedule allowed him to accept. He’d put up a big show of protest when the issue came up, forced the fresh-faced Moffs on High Command to persuade him to attend — but as he pulled his gloves tight and adjusted his half-cape, Pellaeon had to admit (if only to himself) that part of him had missed this:

The good cheer. The alcohol. The political mind games, the traditional waltz of insults and jabs, all of which were meant to be subtle and only half of which actually were. 

His eye caught on a Senator in a high-necked, bare-shouldered evening gown, and he silently added another item to the list:

The girls. 

He paused before a gilded mirror in the hallway and ran his fingers through his hair to comb it; it had gone from blond to grey in his time with the Empire, but it was still thick, and the planes of his face were still as sharp and narrow as they’d been back during his hey-day. With his newfound status as Supreme Commander added to the mix, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble—

A familiar face swam to the front of his mind. Red glowing eyes studied Pellaeon’s coiffed hair and carefully-tailored outfit with subtle disapproval. For the sixth time since his shuttle landed, he found himself thinking of the type of woman who might make it her mission to sleep with the Supreme Commander and tipped his head back with a stifled groan. 

Eleven years after his death, Thrawn was still critiquing what Pellaeon did in his spare time.

He entered the banquet hall through a side door he remembered from the Clone Wars, when the Senator of Algara was a family friend. A knot of mid-ranking politicians were standing on the other side, and they all half-turned to give him a once-over, eyebrows raised — not at his outfit, which was pristine, but at the fact that an Imperial knew the same secret entrances they did. 

And perhaps a little at the small ysalimir resting on his un-caped shoulder. 

“Gentlemen,” said Pellaeon, his posture straight, a relaxed smile playing ‘round his lips.

The murmured greetings he got in return came with a mix of ‘Admiral’ and ‘Supreme Commander’, and Pellaeon took careful note of which title was used and by whom. He made his way past them, listening to the names announced at the front door, and approached the bar. He bypassed the pre-poured glasses and watched carefully as the bartender poured him a fresh one; expensive white ilsaberry wine, the type that hadn’t been available outside the Core Worlds for decades now.

He paused, inhaling the scent, waited for Thrawn’s ghost to spring up again and voice his disapproval. Instead, all he got was an all-too-familiar memory of Thrawn on the bridge, a glass of Forvish ale in his hand. Thrawn would never admonish him for drinking; he’d be more likely to ask for a taste profile and a historic run-down on the wine. And then he would take the glass with a murmured question that was more like an order, his lips parting over the rim as he tasted it, his tongue flashing purple in his mouth.

Turning away from the bar, Pellaeon found himself making direct eye contact with the current Senator of Algara — a tall, rangy man whose finely-tailored clothes did little to bulk him out. He inclined his chin in greeting, took a sip of the ilsaberry wine, and quickly looked for someone else to talk to. 

For the next two hours, Pellaeon kept to the fringes, nursing his glass of wine. He exchanged courtesies with anyone who crossed his path, took note of who looked at him with shining eyes and whose smiles were flat around the edges. The ratio was tilted heavier in his favor now that the Empire and New Republic had conducted a year’s worth of joint exercises; when he first started attending parties like these, his reception had been frosty on all sides. 

There were other Imperial officers present, he noted; most of them avoided his eyes, and he wondered how many would have agreed to come if they’d known the Supreme Commander was going to be here. His eyes tracked over the walls, taking in the new artwork chosen by Senator Malfi when he’d inherited the hall. 

Brightly-lit scenes stared back at him from the frames, almost all of them depicting the aftermath of a battle. Kingly figures in old-fashioned armor looked down on fallen enemies, held aloft severed heads, accepted fealty from soldiers on their knees. 

What would Thrawn make of these paintings, if he were here to see them? What _Pellaeon_ saw was a dark and vengeful fantasy of power, of control, all masked ineptly by bright colors and pastel shades. He searched for Senator Malfi, meaning to scrutinize him, and caught the senator pushing through the crowds in his direction. 

Pellaeon held still, pretending not to notice, until he felt a brush of air at his elbow. He turned and met the senator’s eyes. 

“Bored of the party already?” Malfi asked. His thin lips were curled into a smile. Pellaeon side-stepped the question.

“Quite the star-studded affair,” he said, nodding over Malfi’s shoulder. He wasn’t eyeing anyone in particular, but it didn’t matter; the crowd of celebrities and big-name politicians was so thick that Malfi could look anywhere in the room and pick out a star. 

“Surprised to see you’re not making your rounds,” Malfi said. He waggled his eyebrows, an expression that didn’t look nearly as charming as he seemed to think it did. “You’ve got quite the reputation, you know.” 

“Certain considerations must be made,” said Pellaeon. He lifted a hand, stroked the ysalimir’s chin; it had served him well through the night as both a conversation starter and a convenient excuse whenever a lady attempted to lead him away.

“Ah,” said Malfi. His eyes passed over the ysalimir with neither recognition nor interest. “Perhaps I have something else that might interest you, then. Please, follow me.”

He led Pellaeon out of the banquet hall; Pellaeon’s mind was racing, the glass of wine held loosely in his hand as he considered Malfi’s possible motivations. Was his invitation here merely a disguised summons to a clandestine meeting? Was he to be threatened, or did Malfi and his cohort wish to enter an under-the-table agreement with the Empire? Algara’s southern hemisphere was rich in highly-efficient fossil fuels, the kind the New Republic was always searching for to improve their fleet. If the Empire could secure the rights now…

But Malfi didn’t lead Pellaeon to a conference room. Still familiar with these halls — he never forgot the layout of a building he’d had affairs in — Pellaeon knew all too well that they were currently passing through a line of sleeping chambers. He eyed Malfi’s body language, saw tension and anticipation there, a sort of nervous excitement he was familiar with but couldn’t quite fit with what he knew about Malfi. 

He’d heard no rumors that indicated Malfi preferred the company of men, but that meant nothing; he’d never heard those rumors about himself, either. As their pace slowed, bringing them to a nondescript door at the end of the hall, Pellaeon tried to script a polite rejection in his head. Malfi was thirty years too young and several degrees too smug to be his type.

“Senator...” Pellaeon started. 

In response, Malfi raised one distracted finger and swept a code medallion over the door’s scanner. “You’ll like this,” he said. His voice was firm. “I’d have rented him anyway, but I was glad you accepted the invitation; it only seemed proper to offer you first rights.”

The door swung open. It was dark inside, and it took Pellaeon a moment for his eyes to adjust. 

“Considering what you must have gone through,” Malfi continued, “under his command.”

Inside the room, through the darkness, a pair of glowing red eyes stared back at Pellaeon.


	2. Chapter 2

His mouth ran dry; his throat tightened. Pellaeon rested one hand on his hold-out blaster by instinct, and a moment later — when Malfi turned on the lights — he understood why. Some part of his brain had recognized instinctively that there was more than one person hiding in the shadows, and now he could see that person clearly — a young woman, her eyes hard but bored, as if she'd seen this scene play out a million times. There was a lightsaber hooked to her belt. 

A Force-sensitive guard. Heart thudding, Pellaeon turned to look at the prisoner. He lay supine on the bed, his wrists and ankles bound to the posts, his eyes trained on Pellaeon. His face was blank; his bare chest rose and fell in a calm, deep breathing pattern, as if for him, too, this was nothing out of the ordinary. 

A slave, Pellaeon thought, his eyes tracking down to the prisoner’s bare thighs. A  _ Chiss  _ slave; he’d never heard of any other race that had the same blue skin and red eyes. 

He turned to Malfi, caught the senator smiling back at him. 

“I’m running a big risk by keying you in here,” Malfi said, gesturing to the bed. “Technically speaking, no Imperials are supposed to know. Operational security, they say. But I figured if anyone would appreciate it…”

The Chiss’s age was difficult to define. His hair was military-short, no longer than four inches. Once, when he was younger, Pellaeon had thought all Chiss shared the same sharp cheekbones and palpebral slants. Now that he’d met more of them, seen the vast differences from one Chiss to another, he knew that the slave’s features were unique.

Unique and familiar.

He was looking at Grand Admiral Thrawn. 

Instinctively, he cut his gaze toward the Jedi, caught her staring back at him with a puzzled frown. Her eyes tracked to the ysalimir on his shoulder and then passed over it without a hint of recognition; she felt its effects, then, but wasn’t familiar with the animal itself. Heart racing, Pellaeon looked back at the slave on the bed, tried to reconcile his resemblance to a man who’d been dead for eleven years. 

“A lookalike?” he said. His voice was smooth, showing none of the strain he felt. 

“Not at all,” said Malfi. He stepped forward and placed an unwanted hand on Pellaeon’s elbow, dragging him closer to the bed. Pellaeon allowed himself to be led forward, working past his urge to resist. At the side of the bed, he looked down into the Chiss’s face, saw calm eyes staring back at him from a carefully disinterested face. The facial muscles weren't quite relaxed; a certain tension could be seen along his jaw and the tight line of his lips, like someone holding something back. 

It was a disconcertingly familiar expression. Glancing down the Chiss’s body, Pellaeon saw hardened muscle criss-crossed with dark, non-surgical scars. The Chiss’s muscles were drawn and tense, the ropes around his wrists and ankles tied too tight for comfort; his cock was flaccid, indicating no excitement, no interest. The Chiss followed Pellaeon's gaze as far as he could, and then his eyes slid closed, a subtle indication of pain that Malfi didn't seem to notice. 

“You mean to say…” Pellaeon started. 

“A clone,” said Malfi, his voice thick with satisfaction. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

His hand was so warm it felt like it might burn straight through Pellaeon’s sleeve and scorch his skin. He shrugged Malfi off, no longer caring if he caused offense. He took a step closer, so that his leg brushed against the mattress edge, and looked down into the clone’s face. Inside his cloak, his hand squeezed tight around his hold-out blaster, his palm slippery from sweat.

He asked the question with his eyes: _ Do you remember me? _

The clone scanned his face. His chin inclined, his head dipping to the right:  _ Yes. _

Malfi and the Jedi were on the floor before they knew what hit them. The wail of blasterfire echoed in Pellaeon’s ears; the blue flash of the stun bolts left after-images before his eyes. On the bed, the clone watched him with no expression, his breathing pattern still calm, unchanged — but his wrists flexed so subtly it was almost unnoticeable against his bonds.

“Clothes?” Pellaeon asked, lowering his blaster. His voice came out as a hoarse croak. The clone nodded toward the corner of the room and Pellaeon turned at once, fetching the bundle of clothing automatically. His hands shook with reaction; his mind was racing, and he could feel his face settling into the hard scowl he always wore during battle, or whenever he was thinking through a puzzle.

He sliced through the ropes with his vibro-blade. The man on the bed was identical to Thrawn; it was far too easy to believe he really was a clone, even when Pellaeon knew he should question it, seek outside confirmation, examine the evidence from all sides. He’d sometimes suspected — that is, he’d heard rumors after Thrawn died, from various corners of the Empire — from the New Republic, even — but he’d never let himself think it might be true.

The clone sat up, not bothering to rub the static out of his wrists or cover himself for modesty. He unfolded the bundle of clothing economically, pulled his shirt on without getting out of bed.

“You know my name?” asked Pellaeon through numb lips.

The voice that answered him bored right through his chest, puncturing each organ like a heated needle. Crisp and cultured, even with dehydration roughening the tones; it had been eleven years since Pellaeon last heard Thrawn talk, and yet he knew at once — without hesitation — that this was him.

“I suspect you go by ‘Admiral’ now,” the clone said. “Or perhaps Supreme Commander?” He paused, tightened his lips against a coughing sound that cleared his throat. "I'm sure you prefer Admiral."

He swung bare, well-muscled legs over the side of the bed, stepped into his undershorts and trousers while facing Pellaeon without a hint of shyness. Long, blue fingers worked deftly over the trouser tie; glancing up, the clone examined Pellaeon’s face, seemed to note the hesitation there.

“Gilad,” he said softly. “Gilad Pellaeon.”

Pellaeon’s heart jumped. He sucked in a sharp breath, trying not to show how much his own name — in _that_ voice, coming from _those_ lips — affected him. He turned away from Thrawn entirely, scanned the Jedi guard and Senator Malfi to see if they were stirring.

“You’ve lost weight,” Thrawn noted.

Pellaeon gave a humorless snort. “You haven’t,” he said, voice clipped. “Keeping up your training regimen, I suppose?" A tremor snuck into his words against his will. "Or do they—”

_ Do they program clones with vanity muscles, _ he wanted to ask. He let the words die on his tongue. He heard the rustle of fabric as Thrawn finished with his outer layer.

“Ready to go?” Pellaeon asked.

The pause was a micro-second too long. He wasn’t surprised to feel the clone stepping closer to him.

“I don’t have a plan, so don’t ask for details,” Pellaeon snapped. “We’re walking out of here and we’re going straight to my ship. I don’t care who sees us. The consequences fall on  _ his  _ head—” With his blaster, he gestured to Senator Malfi. “—not mine.”

Another pause. This time, he turned and caught sight of the expression on Thrawn’s face. His eyes were fixed on Malfi’s unconscious body, his lips thin, his gaze hard and cold.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Lead the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

The cameras flashed. There was little Pellaeon could do about that; he kept his head high, made none of the protective gestures he felt compelled to make. Beside him, Thrawn’s clone walked at a sedate pace, his regal aura still intact. They said nothing; they pretended not to see the lenses pointed their way. Later on, examining the footage, they would agree they looked like nothing more than two old colleagues leaving a tiresome party behind. 

Pellaeon was stepping through the hatchway to his shuttle before he realized he still held the glass of ilsaberry wine in his hand.

“Here,” he murmured, the first word he’d spoken to Thrawn since they’d left Malfi and the Jedi guard behind. He felt Thrawn’s fingers brush against his when he took the glass; as he strode through the transport area to speak with the pilot, Pellaeon glanced back once and saw Thrawn holding the glass to his nose, sampling the scent.

When he returned to the transport, the shuttle’s engines were firing up, the deck plating thrumming to life beneath his feet. Pellaeon gestured to an open seat and didn’t stop to see if Thrawn took it; he twisted the durasteel valve that kept the shuttle’s closet-sized medbay secure and opened the door.

He was powering the medical droid on when the shuttle lifted off. When he led it back into the transport area, he found Thrawn buckled into his seat, the glass of wine in one hand, Pellaeon’s personal datapad propped up on his knee. His fingers danced over the keys, entering in a passcode — and Pellaeon grimaced when he saw the screen light up, meaning Thrawn had correctly guessed the string of random numbers Pellaeon used to guard his files. 

Pellaeon stood next to him, positioning the medical droid between them. Without a word of chastisement, he took his datapad out of Thrawn’s hands and set it aside. 

“You’ll submit to a medical exam?” he asked. 

Thrawn’s eyes swept over the droid first and the cramped transport area second.

“It’s to be a _public_ exam, I see,” he said. Pellaeon’s expression didn’t change, and after a moment, Thrawn turned to face the medical droid. “Scan me,” he commanded.

A pale red light washed over Thrawn’s face and moved slowly down his body. 

“The New Republic keeps me in fine working order between appointments,” he murmured as the droid worked. “There’s not much amiss.”

Pellaeon thought of the scars he’d seen covering Thrawn’s body. His mouth went dry. 

As the results poured in, Pellaeon maneuvered the med-droid’s display screen so that it faced him and watched the data stack up. There were no diseases, but plenty of lingering injuries — well-healed, but still noticeable during a scan. Scar tissue, both inside and out, confused the droid, made it waver back and forth between placing Thrawn as vat-grown or a natural birth. In the end, the droid decided on vat-grown and placed Thrawn’s body at around twelve years old.

“How long have they had you?” Pellaeon asked, his eyes getting stuck on this readout. Twelve years. That meant Thrawn had had a clone brewing ever since they recovered the Spaarti cylinders from Wayland. 

“I was pulled from the tank a little over a year ago,” Thrawn said. He barely moved his lips and kept his posture straight while the droid scanned him. 

“And your memory downloads?” Pellaeon asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He scrolled through the readouts, focused on evidence of a bio-chip in Thrawn’s brain.

“Instantaneous transmission,” Thrawn said. His hands flexed over his knees, a seemingly involuntary movement. 

“Instantaneous transmission up until which point?” Pellaeon asked.

He didn’t look up until the silence stretched on without an answer. The droid chirped, its scan finished, and finally Pellaeon glanced up and met Thrawn’s eyes.

“Until death,” Thrawn said. 

Pellaeon studied him, his chest tight. “You mean to tell me,” he said, keeping his voice even, “that the New Republic has had a clone of Grand Admiral Thrawn with all his memories intact for over a year now, and the only way they’ve utilized you is to…”

He couldn’t force himself to finish the sentence; color rushed to his face, turning his skin a mottled shade of red, one that Thrawn — or the old Thrawn, at least — would recognize as rage, not embarrassment. With the scan done, Thrawn was free to move as much as he wanted to, but he still kept unnaturally still. He flipped one hand over slowly, curled his fingers in a subtle and familiar gesture — one he’d made a thousand times before, one which indicated shared exasperation, a sort of condescending expression of puzzlement over some lesser being’s actions. He’d used it before with C’baoth, with Niles Ferrier, with too many Moffs for Pellaeon to remember their names. 

“It was not an entirely fruitless decision on their part,” Thrawn said. His face was unreadable, closed-off. “There were many New Republic allies displeased by the idea of an alliance with the Empire. Certain concessions needed to be made to smooth the way.”

His eyes flicked up, landing on the ysalimir perched on Pellaeon’s shoulder. With a brief sigh, Pellaeon reached beneath his cape and unclasped the chain keeping the ysalimir’s frame in place. He handed it over to Thrawn without a single word passing between them. 

Thrawn’s eyes slid closed. His hand ghosted over the ysalimir’s head; the pads of his fingers brushed over its scales, tangled in its coarse fur. He didn’t seem to be breathing; only when the ysalimir’s tongue flicked out and touched his wrist did he open his eyes again. 

“Do they _know_ how much you remember?” Pellaeon asked, his voice heavy. The clothes, their surroundings — it was all so strange and new that he could ignore it, but this, the long blue fingers threading through an ysalimir’s fur, was so familiar it made his chest ache and his knees weak. He backed up until he felt the edge of a seat against his legs and collapsed into it, letting his weariness show. 

Across from him, Thrawn gave a tiny shake of the head. 

“The Jedi,” said Pellaeon, touching his temple. “They never...?”

Thrawn hesitated. His hand moved over the ysalimir’s back in a familiar rhythm, his body remembering the exact cadence even though this version of him had never touched an ysalimir before. “They tried,” he said, choosing his words carefully. This topic offended him somehow, Pellaeon could tell; perhaps violated his strict sense of privacy in a way the medical scan did not. “Some of their methods worked. Some didn’t.”

They stared at each other, both of them searching the other, though what exactly Pellaeon was searching for — out of a sea of different possibilities — he couldn’t decide. The medical droid retracted its scanner and unlocked the refrigerated cabinet built into its chest. Pellaeon watched as it removed two bottles, uncapped them, measured out a disposable cup full of capsules and handed them to Thrawn.

“Sedatives and painkillers, sir, adjusted for your height and weight,” the droid said.

“Painkillers?” Pellaeon said. 

“I don’t take medication,” Thrawn murmured to the droid.

“Are you in pain?” Pellaeon asked, leaning over when the droid rolled into his line of sight. He snagged the display as it tread past and disconnected it with a quick twist of his wrist; the readout, once he parsed through the lengthy paragraphs of irrelevant information, showed headache, exhaustion, dehydration, rope burn, and— 

The droid handed Thrawn a single-dose tube of bacta lotion and indicated the refresher with its mechanical hand. “At your convenience, sir,” it said. “Unless you require assistance.”

“No,” said Thrawn. A shadow passed over his face; he avoided Pellaeon’s eyes as he left, the fresher door hissing shut behind him. Alone, Pellaeon read over the display again, his heart pounding in his temples, blood rushing back to his face when he’d only just cooled down. 

“This damage,” he said, highlighting it with a swipe of his finger. “It’s recent?”

There was a slight delay as the data was transmitted to and examined by the droid via datalink.

“Quite recent, sir,” it said. 

“Tonight?” Pellaeon asked.

The droid whirred.

“Within the last two hours, sir,” it said.

Pellaeon remembered the silky black ropes knotted so inexpertly around Thrawn’s wrists and ankles — the wrinkled sheets beneath him, one corner untucked as if he’d been thrashing. Or as if someone else had been in the bed with him, making enough motion to tangle the sheets. He hadn’t been observant enough, Pellaeon realized with a wave of self-recrimination. The party had been going on for hours before he was ushered into Thrawn’s temporary cell; he should have noted any lingering scents in the room, should have checked the sheets for any telltale stains. It wouldn’t have lengthened his stay there to take note of these tiny details, wouldn’t have hampered their escape in any way. But he hadn’t seen the evidence. Perhaps he hadn’t _wanted_ to see. 

An error, he thought. One which he would be sure to correct in the future, lest it become a mistake. 

He handed the readout display back to the droid and took a deep breath, trying to center himself before Thrawn came back.


	4. Chapter 4

The time would come for an official announcement about Thrawn's return, but Pellaeon suspected the HoloNet would reach his crew long before that announcement came to be. For now, there was little he could do but order that the passageways be cleared of all personnel, giving him a clear route from the shuttle to the command hall where his quarters were located.

They walked together in silence, the faint scent of bacta lotion hovering in the air between them. Thrawn’s eyes did not sweep the corridors as Pellaeon half-expected them to, the same way all newcomers studied their surroundings. He kept his eyes forward, glancing around only when confronted with some new change — an upgraded shield unit fixed to the bulkhead, a streamlined hatchway installed where the old one had rusted through. 

Pellaeon pretended not to notice — couldn’t bear to address those little glances and what they meant. Instead, he busied himself with his comlink, keeping it to his lips at all times to forestall any attempts at conversation from the man beside him. He muttered into it at length, barely hearing his own words as he ordered the chamber next to his prepared — _by droids only,_ he stressed — and stocked with new sheets on the bed and fresh clothing printed from templets by the quartermaster.

Only when they finally reached the command hall did Pellaeon let his comlink drop to his side. He saw the way Thrawn’s pace slowed as they passed the command room — the room which had once served as his war room, his office, his art museum and his quarters all in one. When Pellaeon walked right past it, Thrawn did not question him; he’d heard the commands given via comlink, even if Pellaeon’s voice had been low. He knew where he was assigned to sleep.

“I must apologize,” said Pellaeon. He chose to face the door rather than Thrawn, busying himself with the code cylinders. The next words that came off his tongue were too practiced, their cadence coming out automatic and wrong, like a schoolboy reciting facts and figures he didn't truly understand. “Your former quarters have been remodeled to accommodate a new office suite.”

He caught sight of Thrawn’s nod — brief and emotionless — out of the corner of his eye. The door slid open before them, revealing a dark and sparse apartment. The droids were still zipping about with the lights off, testing the room’s electronics and climate control while MSE droids swept up a thin layer of dust from the floor.

Thrawn took in everything — the nondescript Imperial-issue furniture, all of it stripped of personality and identity. The lack of possessions. In his old quarters, Pellaeon knew, there had been stacks of datacards, works of art, organized little libraries of weapons, outdated technology he’d tinkered with in his spare time. 

He could picture these things clearly in his head, could close his eyes and rattle them off in a complete inventory. He’d seen them all when Thrawn died.

They were still there, in the untouched command room across the hall.

“I trust it’s to your liking?” Pellaeon said, his voice rough.

Thrawn turned to look at him, his body language unreadable. 

“It will do,” he said. He studied Pellaeon’s face. “My role here. It is to be…?” His eyes flicked up, met Pellaeon’s, searched him for something other than plain information. Reassurance, perhaps? Pellaeon watched him uneasily; the old Thrawn would never seek out reassurance. “...the same as always?” Thrawn said finally.

Pellaeon stared at the man before him — a clone, a sex slave in civilian clothes, a political prisoner who’d been dragged straight from the tank and never seen a day in combat. But when he forced his gaze up, away from the clone’s body, and looked into his eyes, he saw Grand Admiral Thrawn staring back at him, measured and cool. It was impossible to reconcile.

It was a resource too valuable to waste.

“The same as always,” Pellaeon said, not sure he meant it, hoping he did. “I’ll let you rest— ”

Thrawn shook his head. “Send me the fleet reports,” he said, his voice coming out rough again, like when he’d first spoken to Pellaeon back in Senator Malfi’s palace. “Send me everything. My datapad— ”

He turned, instinctively reaching for a spot behind him. In his command room, there was a table there, a table where the original Thrawn always kept his datapad when it wasn’t in use. Here, there was nothing but air. Thrawn stared at it, his hand outstretched, and then turned back to Pellaeon without expression.

“I am to be supplied with a datapad, of course,” he said, his voice low. There was a dangerous question laced between each word.

Pellaeon nodded, gestured to a passing droid. "His datapad?" he asked.

“In the office, Admiral,” the droid said.

“Full clearance?” Thrawn asked, his voice sharp, his eyes wreathed in tension lines. It was clear from the way his eyes darted between the droid and Pellaeon that he knew it wasn’t addressing him when it said 'admiral.'

“Of course,” Pellaeon said.

He watched Thrawn absorb this; the clone raised a hand to his chest, palm flat, massaging a remembered wound.

“Of course,” he echoed in a murmur. 

A terrible silence thickened between them. The smell of bacta seemed to swell and fade. Thrawn crossed to the bedroom and Pellaeon followed him, stopping in the doorway as Thrawn inspected the layout — so utilitarian, so unlike the soothing organization of furniture in the original Thrawn’s quarters — and looked into the locker where his clothes were held. There were no uniforms, but Thrawn didn’t comment on what was missing. He gave the civilian clothes a nod of approval and shut the door. For a moment, his back was turned; Pellaeon couldn’t see his face.

“The same as always,” Pellaeon heard him say.

He turned before Pellaeon could say anything, and there was a thin smile tugging the corners of his lips into a painful-looking twist. He gestured to the bed, but couldn’t seem to force himself to look at it.

“It will be different,” he said, not meeting Pellaeon’s eyes. “Without a bodyguard to watch me sleep.”

Meaning Rukh? Pellaeon wondered. Or did he mean the Jedi guard who’d watched over him while he was — how did Malfi put it? — rented out?

Pellaeon stared down at his feet, his face carefully blank. He saw it out of the corner of his eye when Thrawn let his hand drop.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Thrawn said. His tone wasn't exactly apologetic, and he didn’t wait for a response; he brushed past Pellaeon on his way to the office — a gentle touch on Pellaeon’s arm guiding him out of the way — and surveyed the items there only briefly before grabbing his datapad. The fact that he'd touched him sent a hot unpleasant shiver up Pellaeon's spine; that brief, warm touch was exactly as he remembered it, exactly how Thrawn had once touched him when they were reviewing tactical displays together, crowded 'round the holodeck and in each other's way.

Pellaeon watched as the clone checked his access, making sure he could enter every database and download any necessary file. His expression didn’t change once the whole time — he was regal, distant, vaguely bored.

He was doing a very good job of imitating Grand Admiral Thrawn, Pellaeon thought, his heart twisting.

But Grand Admiral Thrawn was dead, and that fact couldn't be escaped. What Pellaeon had here was a child, injured and impressionable, with the Grand Admiral’s memories and skills clutched tightly in his hand. He remembered how the clone had looked to him for reassurance, how he'd stared into the darkness of his room with trepidation before stepping in. A useful child, certainly; but a child nonetheless.

Pellaeon would do neither of them any favors by forgetting that.


	5. Chapter 5

Eleven years ago, after the longest day of his life, Pellaeon forced himself to enter Grand Admiral Thrawn’s quarters and found the bed unmade. The burgundy sheets were tangled, untucked at one corner, as if Thrawn had tossed and turned the night before he was killed. His pillow was crooked, the blankets pushed into a pile against the wall. It was a sign of haste, a sign of distractedness — a mind clouded by thoughts of the future, so preoccupied by the upcoming battle that he’d forgotten the most automatic daily chore of any soldier: to make his bed. 

There were other signs of disarray he noticed. He’d known of Thrawn’s aversion toward helper droids, that he preferred to clean for himself; he suspected it was something of a ritual, a method used to clear his mind the same way he used physical training and meditation. There was a thin layer of dust on the kitchenette with a single clear spot where Thrawn had swept his finger through it that same morning, perhaps while making a cup of caf, and decided the task would keep for later.

It took only a week for more dust to fall, for Thrawn’s fingerprint to be eaten away by time. That was when Pellaeon forced himself to wipe the surface clean; on a spaceship, there was nothing more common nor more dangerous than dust.

And there were other things to remember Thrawn by.

Inside his command room, he’d left the dual-ring display turned on, his latest choices in artwork glimmering around the chair. The desk in his bedroom was disorganized, covered in old-fashioned flimsi books and datacards, all of which he seemed to have put there just the night before — how long had he stayed up the night before Bilbringi, plotting the next five arcs of his campaign? There were scribblings here and there in a script Pellaeon didn’t understand and none of his translator droids recognized.

Art supplies were neatly organized in his desk drawers, each brush or instrument slotted properly in a handmade tray. Sticks of powdered pigment had been worn down to uneven nubs; half-empty tubes of paint, their caps stained different colors, rolled against each other when Pellaeon slid a drawer open to peek inside. He found sheafs of flimsi, portraits and hand-drawn blueprints, many of them half-finished. The same images had been drawn over and over again until Thrawn was satisfied: here was Pellaeon’s face, the angle and lighting unchanging, each successive portrait sharper than the last.

It was the first time he’d ever seen Thrawn’s personal artwork — adequate but not genius, better than Pellaeon could do but not inspiring, and the utilitarian aspect of it, the evidence of years of patient practice and hard work, the passion poured into something that might not have been a natural talent to start with — it drove Pellaeon’s heart into his throat, forced him to turn away. 

Even eleven years later, he couldn’t enter Thrawn’s quarters without that wave of grief — muted now, but still there. 

He stood there now, surrounded by a dead man’s possessions — his uniforms, his wooden box filled with datacards, his art. He’d prayed for years that Thrawn would come back somehow — that his death had been a mistake, that he would return one day and take the burden of leadership off Pellaeon’s shoulders. But he’d known from that very first day that it wasn’t possible. He’d carried Thrawn’s body from the bridge himself; he’d been the one to undress him, to clean him, to oversee the incineration; he’d been determined that no one but him should witness the indignity of death; he was the only person he could trust to do what was necessary and never speak a word. 

He’d scrubbed the blood from the command chair, ordered the tear in its upholstery repaired — and years later, when he’d finally admitted to himself that he would never sit there, and more importantly, when his men had stopped expecting Thrawn to return, he’d had the chair incinerated as well. 

Thrawn was dead. He’d made his peace with it; it still ached, and it always would, but he accepted it was true.

And now, across the hall, a man who looked and acted just like Thrawn — who remembered things about the Grand Admiral that Pellaeon would never know — was studying Pellaeon’s fleet reports. It was a good facsimile; in every way, the man across the hall _was_ the Grand Admiral. The same mind, more or less; the same skills; a different but identical body. The only difference was in the scars. 

But clones, Pellaeon thought with a shudder, were not always the same as the men who donated genetic samples to make them. And no amount of vat development could replace the years of real-time development a natural-born man received; it left the brain fresh and raw, open to influence. He thought not of his own men but of Joruus C’baoth, the only cloned Jedi he’d ever known. 

He’d seen how useful the clones of Major Tierce and Soontir Fel could be.

He’d seen how dangerous the clones of other men — _different_ men, Jedi, geniuses, non-humans — could be as well. 

With a sigh, Pellaeon closed his eyes, dismissed his fears. He walked through Thrawn’s command room like a ghost, stopped only when he reached the little wooden box where Thrawn’s datacards — his _important_ datacards, the ones he truly cared about — were kept. He slipped these into his sleeve, hesitated, gave the room another once-over.

Perhaps he would allow the clone to reclaim this room someday, he mused. He could live with the sight of that bed remade, the desk reorganized, the uniforms pressed and worn again. But these datacards — Thrawn’s art holos — would never pass into another man’s hand so long as Pellaeon lived.

No matter how much that man resembled the Grand Admiral.


	6. Chapter 6

The fallout came an hour before Pellaeon’s alarm was scheduled to wake him; luckily, a general low-level thrum of adrenaline had kept him more or less awake throughout the night, and it wasn’t difficult to make the transition from bed to desk. He checked his comlink, unsurprised by the messages waiting for him there from nearly every officer of bridge crew; at his holopod, he found the Fleet captains’ messages waiting for him too, alongside the names of what seemed like every Imperial Moff and Governor still in existence. 

Face creased with sleep and still clad in his nightwear, Pellaeon bypassed the messages and pulled up the HoloNet instead. A quick keyword search brought him the live feed from Coruscant. 

An image of Thrawn and Pellaeon exiting Malfi’s party was frozen to the left of the news anchor’s head; to the right, a file photo showed Grand Admiral Thrawn. It was a photo frequently used by New Republic propagandists; taken covertly after a failed assassination on Iridonia, it showed Thrawn at his most menacing — the wreckage of a collapsed building behind him, his trouser cuffs stained with fresh blood. Smoke from the explosion made him narrow his eyes and intensified their glow, giving him the aura of a predatory creature lurking in the night.

And at his feet, begging forgiveness for the near-fatal lapse in security, was a Noghri bodyguard — the picture of cringing servility, at least to those who weren’t there at the time, who hadn’t heard Thrawn’s quick, exasperated, “On your feet, Rukh,” when he noticed the Noghri kneeling. 

Without context, the image seemed to depict a slaughter. Intelligence indicated that the average New Republican was familiar with the photo and had vague ideas that it represented the “destruction” — so they termed it — of Honoghr. The blood on Thrawn’s trouser leg was that of some unfortunate Noghri, they surmised; the burning building in the background had been ordered destroyed by Thrawn himself as an out-of-proportion punishment for some honest mistake; the Noghri at his feet was likely killed just moments later. 

Despite everything, Pellaeon was fond of this photo. The relaxed set of Thrawn’s broad shoulders, the noble tilt of his chin as he walked so casually away from an event that would have left most men trembling on the ground. He hadn’t limped, despite the shrapnel in his leg; he hadn’t raised his voice in anger over the danger he and his men had been in. A calm discussion had unearthed the assassin’s origin, and those responsible were dealt with accordingly — the teachable were shown the errors of their ways, the unteachable executed. Only once they’d made it to the shuttle had Thrawn admitted the blood on his leg was his own. 

The man in the photo on the right was fine. The man on the left, jaw set and head held high, was pretending to be. 

With a sigh, Pellaeon unmuted the feed and listened to the New Republic’s talking heads. 

Over the next hour — while Intelligence was busy compiling its report on the incident — Pellaeon made a report of his own, carefully noting down which theories were most prevalent, which held the most weight, which were likely to take root in civilian minds. 

Thrawn was alive, some stations claimed; in fact, he always had been. The reason for his reappearance now was split between two theories: first, that the ten years of silence and the Bastion Accords themselves had been yet another diabolical strategy, that the New Republic had played right into his hands, and that Thrawn was emerging now to take his spot as the new Galactic Emperor — or perhaps to oust Mon Mothma as chancellor. The other theory was that he’d been in hiding for eleven years, secretly allying with the New Republic all along — a good way to explain their victories in the past decade, one anchor proposed. Now that Pellaeon (portrayed as some oafish yet evil buffoon) had come around to what the New Republic termed ‘The Proper Side of Things’, the fallen Grand Admiral was safe to reveal himself once more.

Neither theory was particularly popular. 

More well-received was the idea of a second imposter — Flim’s glamour shots featured heavily on most stations, and even after a year, it was still strange to see Thrawn’s face with that artificially-tanned skin, that flat black hair, those dull brown eyes. But why bring out an imposter now? And who was behind this new charade? The New Republic (his first appearance _was_ at the palace of a New Republican Senator, after all) or the Empire (he _was_ seen leaving the party in Pellaeon’s company)? Or was it a joint effort aimed to trick civilians rather than each other?

The talking heads seemed disinterested in proposing an answer. They pushed this theory without bothering to explain it, painting the Empire — and Pellaeon himself, of course — as desperate fools eager to reclaim past glory, even if it meant hiring an imposter to play a man long-dead. The Bastion Accords were hand-waved away; the opportunity to ridicule a former enemy was too strong a temptation for most stations to exist. More importantly, by pushing the blame onto the Empire, the stations ran no risk of losing their funding. 

Quieter, with more traction than the first theory and less than the second, was the correct assumption: that this was a clone. Here the speculation was more thoughtful — and more cautious. If this was a clone, did he have any power over the Empire? His casual appearance in Pellaeon’s company would seem to suggest he did. Did he then approve of the Bastion Accords, or did he intend to start another war? The answer to that lay behind the reason he attended Senator Malfi’s party — to scout for information? To make a showing of goodwill? 

Senator Malfi’s loyalty to the New Republic was analyzed and found wanting. He was too new, too volatile; he had too many scandals in his past. Troubling criminal charges from his youth were unearthed and examined in full, and the New Republic anchors decided this was evidence enough of an Imperial association—

—as if Imperials wanted men like Malfi in their ranks, Pellaeon thought sourly, his gut roiling as he remembered a darkened room, blue skin pooling like a shadow over white sheets. He pushed these thoughts out of his head and took careful note of the clone-related theories; when he heard his door open and Thrawn’s familiar measured tread, he repressed a surge of tension and kept his head down.

Thrawn placed a cup of caf close to Pellaeon’s hand. The steam wafted up, the scent enticing but wrong — this wasn’t the same caf the Grand Admiral used to brew; it lacked that hint of spice he’d always added. Pellaeon took it with a murmured thanks.

“You’re up early,” he commented, then glanced Thrawn’s way and realized he hadn’t slept. The clone circled around to Pellaeon’s other side, his posture straight as he watched the news feed.

“—but the real question,” said a bespectacled man, “is how extensive this clone’s memory downloads are. Let’s say his memories are incomplete. Then we must ask ourselves, how much of the late Grand Admiral’s tactical skill was innate and how much of it was learned?”

A banner flickered beneath the man, identifying him as Dr. Yef Qarney, researcher at Coruscant’s Institute of Cybernetics. Why he thought himself qualified to speak on clones, Pellaeon could only guess; perhaps he’d played some role in the bio-chips which had come into vogue in the past twenty years. 

“It’s near-impossible to perfectly recreate a man’s identity through a clone,” Qarney continued. “Few people opt for full downloads — the expense is prohibitive — but it’s difficult to say which memories should be kept and which shouldn’t. Something as simple as a half-forgotten childhood gravball match could turn out to be the impetus behind a dictator’s rise to power; take that away, and you might find yourself with a man who wants nothing more than to retire and live by the sea.”

Pellaeon glanced at Thrawn, studying him out of the corner of his eye. Thrawn’s gaze was fixed on the holodisplay, his face expressionless. Without looking away, he said,

“No worries, Admiral. I never cared particularly for gravball.”

Pellaeon turned away, the note of humor serving only to rankle him. The original Thrawn, he told himself, would never turn this situation into a joke; he banished all the memories that rose before him, reminding him of Thrawn’s dry tone, that faint sparkle in his eye he’d sometimes seen even in the middle of battle. He caught the flicker of Thrawn’s eyes as he studied Pellaeon’s expression, the flash of uncertainty as he noted the change. He made no protest when Pellaeon turned the volume up. 

“—and how much of the Grand Admiral’s personality is natural to him?” Qarney was saying. “How much is the result of life experiences he no longer has? We know him, of course, as the unpredictable, cruel being who poisoned Honoghr—”

Thrawn and Pellaeon made identical noises of dismissal. 

“—but as a clone, his temperament is impossible to predict,” said Qarney. He widened his eyes. “We could be dealing with a Grand Admiral Thrawn who is in fact calm and collected, perfectly capable of reason. Perfectly capable, even, of peace.”

Pellaeon glanced at Thrawn, one eyebrow raised, inviting a shared look of amusement. This time, Thrawn didn’t deign to look his way. 

“But these are just spice dreams,” the newsman cut in. “There’s no evidence this clone is missing any memories.”

Qarney ceded this point with good grace, and with a sigh, Pellaeon turned the holoprojector off. He checked his message board and found every bulb lit up and blinking. With Thrawn at his side, contemplatively sipping his own cup of caf, Pellaeon thumbed his comlink on and stood.

“Lieutenant Banlet,” he said, approaching his locker, “I presume I’ve got the New Republic waiting on-call.”

_“Aye, sir,”_ said Banlet.

“Well, route them to my office holopod and put them on hold,” said Pellaeon. “I’ll be with them momentarily.”

He disconnected the call and tossed his comlink onto his bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thrawn watching him, expressionless, as Pellaeon pulled his sleep-shirt over his head and shoved it down the chute. It didn’t occur to him to ask for privacy until he was halfway undressed, and then he dismissed the thought at once; soldiers did not ask for privacy just to change clothes, and he doubted anything about his physique would surprise Thrawn or give him cause for concern.

He chucked his pants down the chute and hung his dressing gown on its hook before he noticed the shift in energy. Across the room, Thrawn stood beside Pellaeon’s desk with his hands cupped ‘round his mug of caf, the line of his shoulders strangely stiff. His face was closed-off, his eyes hooded — and not aimed at Pellaeon’s body, exactly, but fixed rather on the deck at a point near Pellaeon’s bare feet.

Pellaeon paused, a question written on his face.

“You’re only changing,” Thrawn said, his voice a murmur, his lips barely moving. He didn’t meet Pellaeon’s eyes.

“Yes,” said Pellaeon. A chill washed over him. 

Thrawn gave a slight nod; his expression didn’t change, but the feeling of tension in the air eased a little bit, allowing both of them more room to breathe. It hadn’t been a question, Pellaeon thought as he reached for his uniform; but nonetheless, Thrawn had _required_ an answer. He could sense that much. He pulled his trousers on first to cover himself and realized as he did so that he’d made a serious miscalculation when he decided not to ask for privacy as he changed.

The original Thrawn, like any soldier, had seen thousands of men change clothes — before battle, after battle, in the locker room. This Thrawn, though he _remembered_ thousands of innocent examples, had only actually seen men undress before him in very specific circumstances — circumstances, Pellaeon believed, that the original Thrawn had never experienced at all. 

Pellaeon fastened the sealing strip on his tunic with numb fingers, his mind refusing to focus where he wanted it: on the upcoming call. Instead, it spiraled back to Dr. Qarney, to his assertions that just one missing memory could change the personality of a clone.

He hadn’t mentioned that a still-developing clone might experience things its donor never had. And if missing memories could impact a personality, Pellaeon wondered, what could extra memories do?


	7. Chapter 7

“Shall I wear my uniform?” Thrawn asked. His eyes were on the holoprojector; Pellaeon pretended not to notice the significance of this question.

“You don’t have a uniform,” he said, stabbing the receiver button. Blue dust shimmered to life before him, forming a larger-than-life image that made him grimace; leave it to the New Republicans to choose a holo over a simple video feed. 

He studied the faces before him, taking stock. The New Republic’s biggest heroes were conspicuously absent; the group of Senators before him was just respectable enough to avoid insult, and no more. Their eyes flicked over Thrawn dismissively and then swept automatically back to Pellaeon.

Senator Malfi was not present, Pellaeon noticed. But over there, behind the Chief of State’s aide, he saw a familiar face peeking back at him.

Mara Jade. One of two people who had pulled Thrawn’s clone from the tank.

Next to him, Thrawn went still, his breathing more tight and controlled than a moment before. His free hand came up slowly and rested on the ysalimir’s head; with a subtle quirk of the elbow, he tucked it close to his chest, holding it tight against him at an angle the New Republicans couldn’t see. 

Now, this was interesting, Pellaeon thought. Mara Jade’s connections were well-known, but she had no official place in the New Republic’s government. His gaze shifted down to her belt, where a lightsaber was clipped against her thigh. A bodyguard — that was what they wanted him to think. But Jade’s stance was relaxed, her eyes fixed not on the chamber exits but on the recording rod before her.

“We’ll dispense with formalities,” said Gavrisom's aide before Pellaeon could speak. He gave a clipped hand gesture that immediately set Pellaeon’s teeth on edge. “Return the stolen property,” said the aide, “and we can all leave this meeting in good spirits.”

 _Property_. So that was how they wanted to play it.

“I am afraid he’s not _stolen_ ,” said Pellaeon, trying not to bristle. “Your ‘property’ walked out of Senator Malfi’s palace of his own volition. In any case—” He rushed on before the aide, who’d opened his mouth, could cut him off. “—slavery is outlawed in the Empire. As indeed the Bastion Accords claim it’s outlawed in the New Republic.”

The aide’s cheek twitched. “Clones are not slaves,” he said crisply. “Don’t try to dissemble, Admiral; I’m not here to have a debate over moral philosophy.”

Hands clasped in his lap, face expressionless, Pellaeon said, “Grand Admiral Thrawn may return to your custody whenever he wishes; I’m not keeping him hostage.” He gestured to Thrawn, inviting him to speak if he chose to, but Thrawn stayed silent, and the New Republicans pretended not to notice Pellaeon’s inviting hand.

The aide glanced behind him and met Jade’s eyes. Bypassing all the Senators around him, he looked to her; while their eyes locked, Senator Plarx leaned forward, whispered in the aide’s ear.

And Jade, listening to the whispered conversation, gave a subtle nod.

There was no ultimatum nor any further political doublespeak. The aide turned back to Pellaeon and leaned forward, pressing a button on a message board beneath the recording rod’s scope. A moment later, the holo fizzled out of view and the video screen flared to life.

The image on the screen this time was not of the Senators. It showed the clone, his eyes glassy, his posture straight, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. It was so unlike Thrawn’s normal posture — and his normal controlled expression — that it sent a shiver up Pellaeon’s spine. 

That was before the image on-screen started moving, the clone’s gestures slow and halting. He removed his clothes hesitantly but not teasingly — he seemed incapable of teasing when viewed like this, seemed painfully young and confused — and revealed blue skin and a painful-looking erection. As he took himself in hand, his lips twitched into a grimace — but he stroked himself all the same, and when a bloated New Republic general joined him (one from the Bel Iblis task force, Pellaeon thought with a sick jolt of recognition; they'd had him trapped once, briefly, during the Caamas Document dispute), Thrawn parted his lips and accepted the kiss with an open mouth and a dart of the tongue.

Pellaeon’s mouth was dry. An unconscious mantra was screaming in his mind, begging the New Republicans to turn it off and make their point — but he said nothing, and he refused to let his expression change from the unimpressed mask he’d set it in. Beside him, Thrawn’s eyes were hard, his body as still as a statue; only the blinking eyes of the ysalimir in his arms betrayed any sign of life.

The video feed cycled through a dozen heavily-edited clips — different positions, different men and women, varying levels of cooperation from Thrawn. Pellaeon counted six members of an infamous fringe group of the New Republic, a non-human coalition devoted to tearing down what they saw as human oppression; their faces were hard as they tortured the clone; they refused to meet his eyes, as if to do so would force them to recognize him as a sentient being, someone who should have been part of their in-group but had been labeled — forever and irrevocably — a traitor. If they'd spoken to the clone, Pellaeon thought, they would have found a dozen different examples of shared beliefs; either those beliefs had been ignored or they'd been deemed unimportant. More likely, he supposed they'd never spoken to the clone at all, more interested in taking their pound of flesh than the possibility of peace.

When it was over, the holo fizzled back into life with a spark of blue dust. Beneath the table, Pellaeon kept his finger firmly on the projector's record button, preserving every miserable second of the interaction.

“Your clone is useful to you,” said the Chief of State’s aide with a crisp and un-earned note of triumph in his voice, “only as a figurehead. A symbol of morale. He has no memories of his former life; his tactical skills are rudimentary at best. Do you plan to violate the Bastion Accords and start a new war?”

Pellaeon quashed the irrational, almost overwhelming urge to bite out a ‘yes.’

“Then think about how useful your figurehead is to you when everyone in the Empire sees how he’s spent his last year,” the aide said, his eyes cool. 

The implication was embarrassingly unsubtle. Surrender Thrawn to the New Republic or release these blackmail tapes to the general public — that was Pellaeon’s choice. He could see the lines of tension around the senators’ eyes, the hints of desperation and visible thirst for retribution clear on every face but Jade’s. Did they truly believe Thrawn held no memories of his past? Perhaps the _senators_ did — perhaps that was what they’d been told — but looking at Jade, Pellaeon couldn’t convince himself that she didn’t at least suspect.

But it mattered very little; while he may want revenge — while the thought of what they’d done to Thrawn might make his blood boil — a war between the Empire and the New Republic was no more desirable now than it had been before the Bastion Accords. There _was_ no choice, Pellaeon thought; not really. If the clone of Thrawn was nothing but a figurehead to the Empire, then what was he to the New Republic? Would they really renew the war over the loss of a profitable slave?

And what would be the consequences when the Empire of the Hand found out their leader had been sold back?

“Let me express my gratitude,” said Pellaeon slowly, “for your spirit of cooperation and compromise. I look forward to our next meeting,” His finger hovered over the button, ready to end the call. He pinned the aide with a hard stare. “The Empire works to preserve individual rights and personhood, and despite this conversation, I believe the New Republic does as well. If that's true, then the Grand Admiral and I look forward to working with you in the future to reach our common goals. Otherwise..."

He gave the aide a moment to respond, but there was nothing but an unamused state.

"You base your tactics on emotional distortions and childish preconceptions of the enemy, Director," Pellaeon said. "Had you used the Grand Admiral for anything other than lining your pockets, perhaps you’d understand where you’ve gone wrong. Release as many videos as you please; I look forward to the galaxy’s response when they see how you treat your prisoners of war.”

It would make for a good propaganda video of their own. He disconnected the call before the Senators could formulate a response; the last thing he saw was Mara Jade, her eyes glittering, her gaze fixed on Thrawn.

On _Thrawn_. 

Whom Pellaeon had neither looked at nor consulted as he made this decision on his behalf.

He was still sitting there staring at the banished holo, after-images of Mara Jade burned into his eyes, when Thrawn touched his arm lightly — a touch that communicated something Pellaeon couldn’t understand; a touch that burned — and left the room without a word. 


	8. Chapter 8

Thrawn’s reappearance on the _Chimaera_ was met with wary stares and polite applause. The enlisted men held their formations, trying to take careful peeks at the Grand Admiral without breaking their thousand-yard stares. The upper brass, many of whom had known or at least seen the original before his death, were less rigid and less likely to stare, a fact which didn’t surprise Pellaeon at all; if nothing else, their time with Thrawn had taught them to be patient. When the announcement was over and Thrawn’s perfunctory toneless speech complete, Pellaeon dismissed the crowds without answering the clear question he heard shouted over the enlisted men’s heads:

“So who’s in charge, then?”

Next to him, he could see Thrawn likewise pretending not to hear. The white tunic of the Grand Admiral fit him well, accentuated the broad musculature of a warrior and regal grace of a leader; with him dressed like this, it was too easy to pretend nothing had changed. He surveyed his troops with the same calculating eye as always, kept his hands clasped behind his back and his head held high with a domineering air.

“We’ve become a defense force,” he murmured to Pellaeon, watching his men file out.

“The galaxy needs a defense force,” Pellaeon replied.

He thought he saw a ghost of a smile in response, but couldn’t tell if Thrawn approved of his answer. Decided he didn’t care. They made their exit before the lingering officers could decide whether to approach Thrawn and shake his hand. In silence, they walked the halls, nodding to anyone who glanced their way; Pellaeon maintained his pace at Thrawn’s side, watching the other man carefully so that he could allow Thrawn to choose where they went — his quarters or the bridge — without seeming to.

Only when they were in the turbolift alone did Thrawn speak, his eyes fixed on the closed door before them.

“I must access my command room,” he said. Dark shadows beneath his eyes indicated how little sleep he’d gotten since his rescue; for two days straight, he’d holed himself away in his quarters, poring through the Empire’s action reports from the last eleven years. He’d refused food during that time, always glancing up at Pellaeon and shaking his head so absently that Pellaeon couldn't be sure he truly heard. He looked a little brittle but none the worse for wear as a result — and Pellaeon found himself thinking again, uneasily, of not-quite-organic clones, men who retained their synthetic musculature even after long periods of rest. 

“I understand, then, that your assigned quarters do not meet your needs?” said Pellaeon carefully.

Thrawn glanced at him, a quick, ironic look that seemed to draw them together. Briefly — just briefly — Pellaeon remembered how the original Thrawn had looked at him like that from time to time. The same tilt of the head, the same conspiratorial grin. His chest tightened; he looked away.

“Don’t obfuscate,” Thrawn said. He paused, studying Pellaeon’s face. “The Empire of the Hand made contact with the New Republic last year. Your own intelligence indicates as much.”

Pellaeon felt a muscle jumping in his jaw as yet another old wound was reopened. He kept his eyes blank, refusing to think of Parck and his Chiss cotillion — all the secrets they’d known that Thrawn, conspiratorial smiles aside, had never bothered to tell him.

“You’ve met them,” Thrawn said, a flat question delivered as a statement. “What is your impression of Voss Parck?”

Something inside Pellaeon leaped at this question, recognizing in the cadence and verbiage the Thrawn he remembered. He quashed the urge to fall into old patterns.

“Why do you want access to your command room?” he asked instead. “To contact them?”

“My command room _is_ intact,” said Thrawn mildly, his face giving away no hint of emotion. “I’ve seen the muster sheets; you have no need of additional office space, and the captain I knew—”

Pellaeon turned away.

“—would never order an expense like remodeling the command room without purpose,” Thrawn said. Even facing the other direction, Pellaeon could feel Thrawn’s eyes burning into his skull. Seconds ticked by while Thrawn waited for a response; he’d always been good at that, Pellaeon thought. Waiting people out, using his own extended silence to compel them to speak.

It might have worked eleven years ago. Now, Pellaeon kept his back turned. He stared at the wall until he could feel the blood cooling beneath his skin; only when the turbolift stopped and the doors slid open did Pellaeon turn around again and allow Thrawn to see his perfectly expressionless face.

“Don't feign helplessness. You could break into it if you wanted to,” he said, careful to keep his voice toneless. “There’s no need to ask me.”

“But I _am_ asking you,” Thrawn said. 

What _was_ this? Instead of simply requisitioning the command room or acquiring the code cylinders he needed, he'd chosen to ask Pellaeon, lengthening the process and warning Pellaeon of future plans if he said no. Why? Deference to Pellaeon’s rank, an acknowledgment of the changes between them? An olive branch extended to make up for that question shouted earlier — _Who’s in charge, then?_ — or something different? A plea to dispel the awkwardness, to return things to the way they were? All of the above? It was impossible to tell; Thrawn’s face gave nothing away.

Next to him, Thrawn was watching him with glittering eyes. “It is of course your prerogative—” Thrawn began.

Pellaeon cut him off with a wave of the hand. “If you want it, then the code cylinders are yours,” he said, and to his chagrin, his voice came out more brusque than he’d wanted it to. He handed the cylinders over as they walked, noticed when his hand brushed Thrawn’s that the other man’s palm was atypically warm and slick with sweat. 

He glanced up and met Thrawn’s eyes, and suddenly, though he’d hoped to avoid it, Pellaeon and Thrawn were studying each other. There were a thousand things either one of them could have said; dangerous paths the conversation could have taken. He wondered if the shine in Thrawn's eyes had truly been cunning, as he'd assumed, or if it had been something more raw.

“Thank you,” said Thrawn simply, his fingers curling around the code cylinders. 

“It’s your room,” said Pellaeon, voice rough. He rolled his shoulders, forced himself to turn away. Thrawn had led them to the command hallway, not to the bridge. One step at a time, then; reclaiming his private quarters before he reclaimed command. Pellaeon remembered the unmade bed, the pang of embarrassment he’d felt for the original Thrawn when he saw that forgotten chore — not because he himself cared about an unmade bed, but because he knew Thrawn wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see that lapse of discipline behind closed doors. It felt wrong somehow to let the clone see that, to hand him the code cylinders without first erasing that private slip. He felt irrationally like he was betraying Thrawn, revealing a secret he’d been trusted with to a stranger. He looked down at his boots and swallowed hard.

“It's your room,” he said again. "And you have an empire to contact."

Outside the command room door, Thrawn paused. He cast a slow, considering gaze over Pellaeon; his face was not quite blank, a thin line between his eyebrows indicating deep thought. Pellaeon felt the familiar sensation of holding himself in place before a commanding officer, resisting the urge to leave because he had not been dismissed; when he remembered that he and Thrawn were on equal footing, that he could leave whenever he wanted to, he still felt inexplicably rooted to the floor.

“You ordered the New Republic delegation to release their blackmail material without consulting me,” Thrawn said. His tone revealed no hint of danger, only an invitation to discuss the issue at hand. Gradually, he lifted his gaze and looked Pellaeon in the eyes with a sharp and piercing stare. “Would you have made that same decision,” asked Thrawn, “if I were in my original body rather than a clone?”

Pellaeon’s mouth was dry.

“It’s what the Grand Admiral would have wanted,” he heard himself say. Then, when Thrawn didn’t respond to this: “My decision would have been the same.”

He remembered those images — Thrawn in the bedroom, docile and open, the strain of Force-control in his eyes — and tried to re-configure them, to associate the blue-skinned stranger in his head with the Grand Admiral who’d once led the _Chimaera_ into battle. It was too easy to do; it was a shift so subtle that Pellaeon couldn’t identify later what he’d done. He only knew that as soon as the mental switch occurred, he felt a drop in his gut, like an iron hand had squeezed his organs in its grip. It was an entirely different ache from the pang of sympathy he’d felt while standing next to the clone, watching the video feed play. It was the same sense of terror he’d experienced as a young man when he felt his ideologies changing, the carefully-constructed barricades inside his mind eroding and letting in thoughts he’d never allowed himself to have before — changing him from the brash young lover of democracy and rebellion to the ardent champion of order that he was now.

He opened his mouth, unsure what he wanted to say. The clone’s eyes swept over his face again and took in every detail, processing it before Pellaeon himself was sure what he felt.

“An astute observation,” the clone said, his face a mask. “That is indeed what I wanted.”

But it wasn’t what he’d _asked_ , Pellaeon thought. Even knowing this — even seeing the telltale slip, the moment when Thrawn parted his lips and then closed them again, banishing a thought before it could manifest into words — he still couldn’t force himself to answer it. Thrawn's wording hadn't gone over his head; whether other people believed him or not, the clone identified himself not as a separate person, but as the original Thrawn. A new body, he seemed to think, but the same mind. Briefly, Pellaeon wondered if the Chiss had a concept of the soul, if Thrawn would even understand what he meant if he questioned whether that had remained the same as well.

Heart pounding, he watched the clone enter a command room which had stayed untouched for eleven years. 


	9. Chapter 9

Thrawn wasn’t in his command room; his temporary quarters had been cleaned out. Pellaeon glanced around the replica bridge, his chest tightening at the changes — the holoprojector displaying Chandrilan news feeds rather than artwork, the tidied desk and bed — and told himself quite firmly that it didn’t matter where the clone had gotten off to. 

More and more frequently, Thrawn had been sneaking onto the bridge, his footsteps so quiet that he seemed to manifest there rather than walk. He rarely spoke; he only observed, his expressionless face giving nothing away. If he noticed the bridge crew staring at him or whispering among themselves, he didn’t show it, and no matter how hard he studied him, Pellaeon could detect no hint of either approval or disdain.

But then, perhaps that was simply because there wasn’t much to have an opinion about. The Fleet’s activities now resembled missions Pellaeon had run years before the Galactic Civil War heated up: anti-piracy runs, conflict diffusion. There was the occasional planet-side excursion, usually to aid in fights against warlords or to dismantle a slavery system, but the _Chimaera_ had seen none of those more interesting missions since the clone was brought aboard. 

He ran his hand over Thrawn’s desk; the books and datacards that had lain there for eleven years had all been put away, the scraps of flimsi bearing Chiss script hidden. Now the desk showed only three items, carefully organized: his datapad, multiple windows pulled up as Thrawn examined recent Fleet movements and what looked like military reports from the Empire of the Hand; a stack of datacards, some of Imperial manufacture, some not; a comlink laid out alongside. Hidden beneath the research windows was a half-finished tactical map showing the spinward side of the galaxy, near Coruscant.

A quick glance through the drawers showed Pellaeon that the art supplies remained untouched. He touched one of the pigmented sticks, thinking perhaps it had dried up and become unusable, but his finger came away smeared with black. 

A burst of static from his comlink jerked him out of his thoughts.

 _“Sir, Major Ulrich,”_ said a stormtrooper, his voice tinny and distant. _“He’s in the training dojo again. Admin droid says it’s been three hours.”_

Pellaeon stared down at his hand, still hovering over the unused pigment sticks. He pressed his comlink’s broadcast button. “Copy, Major,” he said. He hesitated; the order to intervene was on the tip of his tongue when he banished it. “I’ll be there shortly,” he said instead. 

With one last look around the Grand Admiral’s quarters, Pellaeon left. 

It was no surprise to find Thrawn in the training dojo again. Off-duty troopers, including Major Ulrich, were clustered on the other side of the room, their posture tense; some were resisting the urge to glance behind them at the clone while others showed a worrying lack of concentration on their routines. Across from them, alone with the combat droid, was Thrawn. 

His hair was damp with sweat, Pellaeon noticed; his undershirt was sticking to his skin. The off-duty troopers and officers parted for Pellaeon as he walked through them, though a quick quelling gesture kept them from shouting everyone to attention. Thrawn pulled back from the droid as Pellaeon approached, blocking a blow to his ribs just long enough to power the droid down. 

“Walk with me,” Pellaeon said.

Thrawn nodded, too busy catching his breath to respond aloud. The wraps on his hands, meant to protect him during sparring practice, were starting to show blood. 

“You’re overworking yourself,” Pellaeon said when they were out of earshot. He barely moved his lips as he spoke, hyper-cognizant of the men lining the halls and watching Thrawn with open curiosity as he passed by. Without glancing down at Thrawn’s hands, he said, “You’re going to injure yourself.”

“Your concern is appreciated, Admiral,” said Thrawn. After letting this statement breathe for a moment, he added firmly, “I know my limits.”

“You aren’t sleeping enough,” Pellaeon persisted. “You split your waking hours between playing catch-up with the last eleven years and trying to insert yourself into the Empire’s plans for the future.”

“ _My_ plans for the future,” Thrawn said, voice mild, emphasis light.

“You’re not going to _have_ a future if you keep this up,” Pellaeon snapped. They rounded the corner into the empty command hallway and Pellaeon stopped at once, grabbing Thrawn’s injured hands. There was no sign of pain from the clone’s face, even as Pellaeon dug his thumbs into the bloodstains on the fabric. “You’re over-exerting yourself,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, “You don’t have to live up to his reputation.”

Thrawn’s hands tensed, gripping Pellaeon’s wrists tight. His eyes burned into Pellaeon’s.

“I’m not suffering from an inferiority complex,” he said softly, his voice even. “I am suffering from an over-abundance of energy after a year in captivity with no opportunities to exercise my mind or hone my skills. And I have responsibilities to keep, Admiral; I cannot allow myself to fall behind.”

He searched Pellaeon’s face, his eyes hard. There was a wealth of subtle emotion on his face, invisible to anyone who hadn’t spent years studying the original, and it took Pellaeon’s breath away. He watched Thrawn’s jaw flex, his lips tighten; lines appeared between his eyebrows and at the corners of his eyes. It seemed almost like he couldn’t decide what to say; he had yet to let go of Pellaeon’s hands, and Pellaeon could feel sweat and blood seeping through the cloth wraps, dampening his own skin.

“You understand,” said the clone finally.

Not as a plea, not as a question. He said it like an order, leaving no room for argument. 

And Pellaeon did understand. He knew what it felt to be left without the original Thrawn, forever wondering if one’s actions measured up to his expectations, forever questioning whether you were doing what was right. If he would approve; if he would chastise you. He’d hoped the clone, if nobody else, would know what Thrawn wanted.

It seemed he was as in the dark as anybody. 

* * *

The office door was unlocked, unguarded — an interesting change from the old days, Pellaeon thought, but not entirely a surprising one. Thrawn, both the original and the clone, had ample reason to distrust guards and no rational reason to deny his men access to his office during business hours. As he crossed into the foyer, Pellaeon became aware of faint noises — the hiss of static, indiscernible dialogue, the light chirruping purr of an ysalimir — from the other room. 

Thrawn didn’t glance up as Pellaeon entered; he held a small personal projector in his hands, ignoring the larger model built into his desk. His face was blank, his chest rising and falling steadily — but his posture seemed strained and his shoulders were somewhat hunched. When Pellaeon stood behind him, he saw why: on the video screen was a feed from a popular Imperial Holonet site showing what had become, over the past few weeks, a familiar image.

The clone knelt before the owner of Alkherrodyne Productions, a man who’d received minor fame when he signed a manufacturing contract with the New Republic earlier this year. The clone was nude, the lighting soft; it played over the planes of his muscles as he struggled to breathe, glowing red eyes fixed with cool dignity on the man tightening a rope around his neck.

The same ropes bound his wrists and ankles, crossed seductively over his chest and abdomen; Pellaeon could see the clone’s nipples peaking, his cock hardening as the coarse fibers of the rope rubbed against sensitive skin. Despite his physical reaction, there was no sign of arousal on his face — and when the human man who’d rented him put his hands on Thrawn’s neck and pushed him back against the floor, the clone bared his teeth in a grimace of pain.

But he spread his legs obediently, Pellaeon noted, and let the man enter him without a fight. There was no sign of a Jedi guard in this video or in any others released by the New Republic, but there must have been one there; Pellaeon could see the clone’s hands clenching, his fingers bending unnaturally as he tried to untie his bonds and something invisible stopped him. 

“You shouldn’t be watching this,” Pellaeon said, his lips numb. He swept a gloved hand over his forehead, suddenly aware of the cold sweat coating his skin and the way his gut was twisting. Thrawn glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised — and Pellaeon noticed the glassy sheen to his eyes, the shallow pattern of his breath, the way his fingers clenched over the projector.

He took the projector away — Thrawn didn’t put up a fight — and turned it off with a muted click. Suddenly, the office seemed too quiet; until now, Pellaeon hadn’t realized how pervasive the sound of heavy breathing and whispered nonsense from the video had been. He turned the projector over in his hands, running his thumbs along the plastic casing while his mind raced.

“It has an acclimating effect,” Thrawn murmured.

Pellaeon turned to look at him. Thrawn sat in his chair, eyes hooded and fixed on the desk, one hand tracing over the empty spot where his projector had been. His posture seemed deflated somehow, but when he turned and met Pellaeon’s gaze, his eyes were cool and defiant.

“A seasoned warrior doesn’t flinch when entering a battle,” he said, “because he’s been in battle many times before. Repeated exposure erases fear.”

Pellaeon blinked at him. His hands tightened around the projector, threatening to crack the casing.

“This isn’t a battle,” he said.

Thrawn turned away again, his shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug. “It activates the nervous system all the same,” he said. His face was impossible to read, but he took a long, slow breath through his nose, his chest expanding as he centered himself. “Your concern is touching,” he said finally, not sounding particularly touched. “But it does me no harm to view the material, Admiral. And I cannot trust myself to function in either your empire or mine until I know that a simple reminder of the past year won’t…”

Pellaeon waited for him to finish, his palms sweating around the projector. When Thrawn trailed into silence and shook his head — his face still closed-off — Pellaeon took a deep breath himself and, against his instincts, placed the projector down within Thrawn’s reach.

“Don’t strain yourself, then,” he said, forcing the words out through a tight throat. “But do what needs to be done.”

He pretended not to see Thrawn’s face work as he nodded. He pretended not to see a blue hand creeping over the projector on his way out. 


	10. Chapter 10

It took weeks for the Empire of the Hand to respond to Thrawn’s first message. Pellaeon watched the response alongside Thrawn — a concession, he thought, that indicated the clone had sensed his lingering hurt over the secrets the original Thrawn had kept from him. Voss Parck put up a good front of gruff Imperial dignity, but the gleam of relief in his eyes was undeniable and disquieting; it edged too close to fervor for Pellaeon’s taste; reminded him of worshipers he’d seen on shore leave once, gathered ‘round an ancient altar stone.

The Hand was amenable to a meeting, Parck said, at the Syndic’s earliest convenience. When the message finished, Thrawn allowed it to replay once — it was brief — and then turned his holoprojector off. He sat in silence for a moment, the ysalimir perched on his forearm, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. 

“What is your impression of him?” Thrawn asked finally.

Pellaeon eyed him for a moment, remembering how Thrawn had asked him the same question yesterday, and how he’d side-stepped answering.

“He seems a little _too_ thrilled about it,” Pellaeon said, his tone carefully neutral. Thrawn’s expression didn’t change.

“Indicating…?” he asked.

“Indicating hesitance, perhaps,” Pellaeon said. Thrawn gave a slow nod.

“Hesitance,” he repeated. “And perhaps a hint of shame. I suspect Parck finds himself caught in a difficult position; the Chiss warriors are not likely to accept a cloned leader without question. Parck himself is likely suffering from certain reservations.” His eyes swept sideways, landing on Pellaeon. “But now we’ve come to an issue neither of us has yet addressed. I wear the uniform of a Grand Admiral; am I then permitted to commandeer Imperial equipment as I please, or is the uniform a mere courtesy?”

Pellaeon blinked, his heart rate kicking up at the unexpected topic change. His instinct told him to obfuscate first — to tell the clone he had the full military rights due to his rank — and to find a work-around later, when he had more time to think about it. But he’d had weeks to think about this topic in particular, and obfuscating never worked with Thrawn.

“You have been given full access to Imperial records,” he said carefully. “You walk the ship as you please; no one bars you from entering the bridge. Is there some reason you _shouldn’t_ be given full rights?”

The look Thrawn gave him was coolly amused.

“The men don’t salute me,” he said mildly. 

“Imperial regulations—”

Thrawn waved his hand. “Imperial regulations do not require subordinate officers to salute while indoors and uncovered,” he said. “Yes. But the fact remains they _used_ to salute me. This is not a reprimand,” he added when Pellaeon opened his mouth. “Merely an observation. Our men will change their opinion in time, once I’ve earned their respect again; but their opinion stems from that of their commanding officer, and you no longer view me as an Imperial officer.”

Pellaeon said nothing, a sour taste slicking his tongue. 

“I will require a ship,” Thrawn said, turning away.

Pellaeon still didn’t respond immediately; he let out his breath in a slow sigh, forcing himself to breathe evenly again. Thrawn was not inviting discussion or argument; he was merely addressing an issue he’d noticed and getting it out of the way so they could focus on something he deemed more important. A common tactic of his, and one that still affected Pellaeon the same way: by making him want to argue even harder.

Thrawn had always been effective at sparking anger in him, and even more effective at using that anger to manipulate him. Pellaeon held his temper in check.

“Tell them what you need,” he said instead, “and my men will get it to you. The Imperial Navy has not fallen so far without your guidance that its men have forgotten how to follow orders.”

The stiff note of reproach in his voice only made Thrawn smile.

“Indeed,” he said mildly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Before Pellaeon could get his feathers ruffled over _that_ , Thrawn changed the subject.

“And will you be joining me for my visit with the Hand?” he asked. The look he gave Pellaeon was innocently curious. “It’s high time you met them. I’ve taken the liberty of looking through your schedule, and I noted a gap in maneuvers and meetings next month which will serve us nicely.”

“Join you,” Pellaeon scoffed. Thrawn only stared at him, his expression expectant and unchanging.

Pellaeon _did_ want to join him. His chest went cold at the invitation; for the past year, his chief regret had been that Thrawn never trusted him with this, that his service to the Empire was never good enough to earn him the Grand Admiral’s confidence or an invitation to the Hand. 

The only problem was that it was eleven years too late, and this wasn’t Thrawn. 

Despite his best efforts, his thoughts must have shown on his face. The clone’s eyes flickered, some indefinable emotion passing over them before he smoothed it over and turned away. He turned his recording rod to face him, his finger hovering over the power button.

“Think it over,” he said. “Joint attendance will be useful to both of us whether you attend as Fleet Admiral or as my friend. I will be honored either way.”

Pellaeon’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. He murmured an excuse to leave and walked away, resisting the urge to shake his head, resisting the aching warmth inside him even more.

Were Thrawn’s manipulation skills innate, or had he ordered those downloaded to the clone as well? Pellaeon thought sourly. 

* * *

He’d more or less promised the clone that he had rights to Imperial equipment equivalent to the late Grand Admiral’s. Now, staring down at his comlink, Pellaeon was dangerously close to eating his words.

“Say again, Lieutenant?” he said.

 _“We’re missing significant numbers of equipment from the armory, sir,”_ said the master-at-arms. _“All checked out properly, sir, but by the — by Grand Admiral Thrawn.”_

“Route the full inventory to my datapad,” Pellaeon ordered, already heading out the door. He paused, eyeing the command room across the hall. “And Lieutenant,” he added, “I don’t want to hear that slip of the tongue again.”

There was a sheepish pause before the lieutenant’s voice came back to him. _“Aye, sir.”_

Pellaeon’s datapad beeped a moment later and he pulled up the inventory. There were seven different types of blades kept in-stock in the _Chimaera’s_ armory, specifically for ground troops, and Thrawn had checked out one of each — and nothing else. He ticked over a mental list of reasons Thrawn might have taken the knives: to check the quality, to reacquaint himself with Imperial weaponry.

When he scanned his code cylinder and entered Thrawn’s quarters, he found a new definition of ‘reacquaintance’ waiting for him.

Thrawn’s uniform tunic and undershirt were gone, and Pellaeon — his brain trained by years of battle to associate the half-dressed with the injured — found himself searching automatically for a weapon, for a wound. He found the former in Thrawn’s hands, the tip of a knife blade tracing lightly over his own chest.

Over an unblemished spot where, eleven years ago, the original Thrawn had received his fatal wound. 

Thrawn’s eyes flicked up to meet his, appearing like nothing more than narrow red slits in the dark. His wrist flexed, dragging the point of the blade lightly over his skin and leaving faint white-blue lines wherever it touched. He wasn’t pressing hard enough to draw blood, Pellaeon noticed; he was only tracing a pattern over his undamaged skin.

Pellaeon averted his gaze, then found himself looking again, drawn back inexplicably to the sight of the blade. He caught himself staring — cataloging the clone’s scars. He’d seen Thrawn’s nude body when he died, and he remembered vividly which scars he’d had and where they’d been. The clone’s scars were all different, naturally, but in terms of volume, Pellaeon suspected he had just as many, if not more. 

“What are you doing?” he heard himself say, his voice a dry rasp. “Acclimating yourself again?”

Thrawn’s only response was a sleepy hum, a disconcerting sound that drew Pellaeon closer. He studied the clone’s face — half-lidded eyes, slack mouth and jaw, as if his mind was far away. Hidden in memory, maybe, or lost in sensation. Gently, Pellaeon grabbed the clone’s wrist and took the blade away. 

“Does the threat of a blade frighten you?” he asked.

Thrawn glanced up; their noses almost touched, but the clone’s eyes wouldn’t quite focus on him. His hands drifted, landed on Pellaeon’s forearms; his skin was cold and dry.

He guided Pellaeon’s hand up so gradually that he didn’t realize it was moving until his palm was pressed flat against Thrawn’s bare chest. He could feel the unnatural warmth there, caused by the abrasions to his skin; he could feel Thrawn’s heart thudding against his hand.

“ _This_ frightens me,” Thrawn said, voice toneless, face soft. 

When he leaned forward, there was a moment where all Pellaeon could see was the red glow of Thrawn’s eyes; and then he let his own eyes drift closed. Thrawn’s lips were soft and chilled; his tongue felt hot by comparison, flicking at the corner of Pellaeon’s mouth, swiping a line down his bottom lip and over his teeth.

Beneath Pellaeon’s hand, Thrawn’s heartbeat remained steady. He felt long fingers circling his other wrist, guiding him gently but firmly to Thrawn’s hip. The cold solidity of bone and muscle there made Pellaeon feel like he was touching a statue, not a living being; he thought of the original Thrawn, his body soft and pliant as Pellaeon ran a warm wet rag over his skin; the way his limbs had turned rigid before incineration, leaving him hard to the touch and ice-cold. 

He broke the kiss and turned his head away, gasping for air. He could see a red glow out of the corner of his eyes, knew Thrawn was studying him.

“Acclimating yourself?” Pellaeon asked, his voice weak.

He felt Thrawn’s hands beneath his shirt, pressed flat against his abdomen, warmth seeping from Pellaeon’s skin and into the clone. 

“You wanted me once,” Thrawn murmured. Pellaeon looked at him, but couldn’t read the tone in either his voice or his eyes. “I remember how you used to look at him. He knew it as well as I do.”

A chill crept up Pellaeon’s spine and he pulled away. He tucked in the shirt Thrawn had pulled out of his trousers while they were kissing, readjusted his tunic, was relieved to find his body unresponsive to Thrawn’s touch. 

“I’m not interested,” Pellaeon said, the words coming out simultaneously desperate and harsh. “Not like that.”

The clone said nothing. He didn’t try to argue with Pellaeon or convince him otherwise. He only watched as Pellaeon adjusted his uniform and walked away.


	11. Chapter 11

He went to bed remembering the way the clone’s bare hands had felt against his skin and wondering, not for the first time, how much of what Thrawn felt for him was real. The original had known of Pellaeon’s feelings for him — even if Pellaeon himself hadn’t known until the Grand Admiral was dead. Was it absurd to wonder whether Thrawn had ever felt the same?

Pellaeon was not given to self-deprecation. The first five decades of his life had firmly cemented his self-image on the favorable side; his looks, his uniform, his still-athletic figure — there was no reason to find himself wanting in any of those categories. But there was little reason to think the original Thrawn might have _cared_ about those qualities, too — far more important to him were competence, open-mindedness, free thinking, a willingness to learn. 

Pellaeon liked to think he had displayed those traits. Certainly, he displayed them _now_. So let him entertain the idea that Thrawn shared his feelings: did that mean, then, that what the clone felt now, what led him to untuck Pellaeon’s shirt and trace the hard lines of his abdomen, was artificial? Emotions he remembered from the original Thrawn’s memory downloads, but did not feel himself?

There hadn’t been enough time between them for the clone to develop more than an infatuation — and that might have been comforting, if Pellaeon had found even a hint of infatuation in the clone’s eyes. What he’d seen instead were eyes so dazed the clone might as well have been drugged.

So _was_ it infatuation, then? Or was it an involuntary symptom of trauma? Was the clone recreating the scenarios he’d been forced into over the past year, making them safe again — or was he latching onto Pellaeon because he was his rescuer, because he couldn’t help but associate Pellaeon with safety, even peace?

He remembered the clone’s lips against his. He remembered the hot wet press of the clone’s tongue.

With his eyes closed, Pellaeon ghosted a hand down his bare chest, down his stomach where Thrawn had touched him, past the waistband of his underwear. He remembered Thrawn’s body, nude and bloodstained, stretched out in the harsh light of the medical bay. He remembered the clone’s hands warming against his skin.

Nobody had to know what had happened between them, he decided. He would make it clear to the clone that it couldn’t happen again.

And, he thought as he stroked himself, cock thickening beneath his hand, nobody needed to know what he was doing now. 

* * *

He woke with a jolt to find a cool hand pressed over his forehead, the familiar spicy scent of Thrawn’s skin invading his nose. Pellaeon sucked in a gasp of air and then froze; he blinked his eyes, batting his eyelashes against Thrawn’s palm, until the other man moved away. His first thought was that something had happened, but he heard neither alarms nor his comlink, and when Thrawn didn’t speak, he understood there was a different, less urgent reason he’d been woken.

There was a dip in his mattress and a slight warmth against his side that indicated Thrawn had perched next to him on the side of the bed; the dim red glow of Thrawn’s eyes provided the only light Pellaeon could see. As he sat up, the blanket falling away from his bare chest, he became sleepily aware of how little clothing he was wearing, and more importantly, of the way his undershorts clung to his skin, sticky and still damp from what he’d done before he fell asleep. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Thrawn said, his voice low. “I heard you shouting through the walls.”

Pellaeon rubbed the grit out of his eyes, propped up on one arm. He should have cleaned himself, he thought with a grimace; shouldn’t have let himself fall asleep. But then again, how was he supposed to know he’d be awakened like this?

“I was…?” he started.

“You were.”

He didn’t remember having a nightmare. His sleep had been deep and dreamless; or rather, if he had been dreaming, the snippets of light and sound were too nebulous now to define. He reached out for them in his mind and felt them slip away, leaving behind no traces of anxiety or anguish.

Sitting next to him, still dressed in his uniform, Thrawn stared not at Pellaeon but at the wall, his face unreadable. His hands were laid flat against his thighs, a small gesture that made his posture seem unnatural and stiff.

“Did I wake you?” Pellaeon asked, eyeing the uniform.

“I was otherwise engaged,” Thrawn said. He turned his head and briefly studied Pellaeon’s face. “Analyzing the fleet reports,” he explained, “and intelligence from the New Republic and the Hand.”

Pellaeon grunted, the haze of sleep still hanging heavy over his mind. “They’re giving you access to all that?” he asked.

There was a long pause before Thrawn answered.

“Some,” he said. He glanced down at his hands and an emotion flickered over his face; he flexed his fingers, curling his hands into fists, and then stared down at them as if gauging how they looked against his thighs, trying to discern what was more natural: an open hand or a closed fist. Pellaeon watched it all, becoming more awake by the second and disliking everything he saw.

His jaw didn’t hurt, he realized. When he had nightmares — _every_ soldier had them, he wouldn’t deny that — he always clenched his jaw so tight that he woke up with his teeth aching. 

But Thrawn—

There were shadows hollowing his cheeks. There were creases at the corners of his eyes. His shoulders were tense; a muscle jumped in his jaw. Every few seconds, though he tried to fix his gaze upon the far wall, his eyes shifted toward Pellaeon in quick jerky bursts, sneaking glances to make sure he was still there. 

Looking for reassurance again. Seeking out company. Refusing to ask for it because — Pellaeon’s heart rate increased as he acknowledged it for the first time, fleetingly, inside his own head — because he knew Pellaeon looked at him differently now than he had before his death, because he didn’t want to give Pellaeon any reason to change his opinion even more. The original Thrawn would never come to him like this, Pellaeon thought. But the original Thrawn had never suffered what _this_ Thrawn had suffered — and this sort of thinking was exactly why the clone sat on the edge of his bed so stiffly, closed-off and hesitant to speak. 

Pellaeon searched his memory for any hint of a dream. He found nothing. Beneath the blankets, the uncomfortable itch of drying come against his skin made him fidget and eye the clone, searching desperately for any hint that he was ready to leave.

Thrawn looked back at him, met his eyes. A flash of desperation crossed his face, so unfamiliar an expression that Pellaeon found himself repulsed.

And then guilty.

And then saddened.

The clone looked away. His face was unreadable; his breathing remained even and calm, giving Pellaeon no hint to what he was thinking. After a moment, eyes hooded, he shifted on the mattress, briefly and accidentally touching Pellaeon’s arm, and then leaned away.

“I apologize,” he said softly, staring at the wall. “My actions were perhaps not fully thought-out. I didn’t think…”

A spike of adrenaline made Pellaeon’s chest ache. 

“Didn’t think I’d see through you?” he asked not unkindly. He searched Thrawn’s face, watched his lips tighten in chagrin. “Well, perhaps I wouldn’t have,” Pellaeon allowed, his voice gentle. “Eleven years ago.” When Thrawn said nothing, his eyes still hard and his face full of self-recrimination, Pellaeon shifted on the mattress and bumped Thrawn’s elbow with his own. His heart thudded painfully, but he kept his voice light, his tone casual, even as part of him screamed not to say the words on the tip of his tongue.

“Stay the night,” he said.

The clone’s face was turned away. Pellaeon could see the curve of his cheekbone and the sharp angle of his jaw, but nothing else. He wasn’t breathing; his shoulders were tight, his body unnaturally still. When Pellaeon nudged him again, he felt Thrawn’s fingers twitch against his hand, reacting instinctively to the touch. He seemed one second away from giving in, clutching Pellaeon’s hand, lying down alongside him.

“Stay,” Pellaeon said again, so quietly he barely heard himself. He placed his hand flat between Thrawn’s shoulder blades, felt his breathing and the coldness of his skin. 

With a slow, shivering sigh, Thrawn shook his head. 


	12. Chapter 12

It was Pellaeon’s policy to stay off-bridge as much as possible during skirmishes and leave the tactical decisions entirely to his captain, the same way Grand Admiral Thrawn had often trusted him with conflicts. But with Captain Keller away at a joint exercise and a fleet of pirates picking an unwise fight with the _Chimaera_ , Pellaeon was stuck supervising the bridge crew nonetheless. 

He noticed Thrawn entering the bridge in the middle of the skirmish. The pirates had just enough variety in their fleet to present an interesting challenge — a challenge to which his men didn’t seem to be rising, Pellaeon noted with frustration. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Thrawn standing out of the way with his back against the bulkhead, quietly observing every order and resulting move. 

The men scarcely seemed to notice him; they’d grown used to his presence ever since his rescue and no longer even glanced up from their consoles. Outside the viewport, the _Chimaera’s_ TIE fighters were looping the enemy, strafing their shields with low-impact laser fire and driving them back toward an asteroid belt — a fact the enemy had clearly noticed, as they were stubbornly refusing to be coralled. 

A TIE fighter slammed into an enemy ship and came out the worse for wear, its pilot ejecting and waiting for rescue. The maneuver was faltering. Pellaeon opened his mouth, impatient and ready to change tack.

The clone stepped up. 

“Might I make a few suggestions?” he murmured to Pellaeon. His voice was low and their heads close together to prevent anyone else on the bridge from hearing.

Pellaeon hesitated. So far, Thrawn had been careful not to interfere with the _Chimaera’s_ military missions; he stayed back from the action, eyes glittering as he watched the officers take control, but he did not speak. In his first few weeks onboard, this had been a relief to Pellaeon; he worried his men would chafe under the leadership of a clone. But now, when they’d had so much time to acclimate….

“What is it?” Pellaeon asked, his eyes on the viewport and his lips barely moving.

“The commander of the fleet is almost certainly a Godoan,” Thrawn said, indicating the flagship with a point of his finger. He traced the design of the hull through the viewport, but whatever hints he saw there, Pellaeon couldn't find them. “Or if not, then it is at least a guarantee that the majority of the crew, in all vessels, are from Godo," Thrawn continued. "The Godoans fear infectious diseases above all else. With a spray of unidentified particulate to penetrate their diffusion shields and stick to their hulls—”

Pellaeon held up his hand and Thrawn fell silent at once, his eyes sparkling. It was only later that Pellaeon realized he’d mimicked the original Thrawn’s old gestures, and that the clone had reacted the same way Pellaeon himself once had; with barely contained delight that his suggestion was being seriously considered and nervousness that he might have gone too far.

“Eyes up,” he barked to his men. He thumbed his comlink on and held it to his lips. “All hands, the Grand Admiral is taking control of this operation. You follow his orders now; let’s get these pirates under control.”

His crew stared back at him, their faces carefully blank. One by one, they turned their eyes toward the clone, whose upright posture and cold composure matched the original Thrawn to a tee. As the clone ran through his plan — slower this time, but not by much — Pellaeon watched his men and saw their expressions begin to change. 

“The spray will slow their reaction time,” Thrawn said. “They will consider the need to prevent an infection their number one priority; whatever shipboard policies they have in place to fight infection will take precedence, then, over the battle itself. The particulate itself need not be infectious; their cultural upbringing and the proliferation of biological warfare in their area guarantees they will _assume_ it is no matter what we throw at them, so long as it does not resemble a traditional Imperial weapon. Torpedoes, laserfire, concussion bolts...”

He thumbed his own comlink on; it was the first time Pellaeon had seen him use it since he was rescued.

“Lieutenant Farley,” Thrawn said, his voice modulated and calm. “Remove the sessile fungal structures from the medical lab and mix them with an adhesive strong enough to stick to a ship’s hull.”

While the TIEs kept the enemy fleet preoccupied — abandoning their asteroid belt goal at Thrawn’s request — the _Chimaera’s_ engineers prepared the substance and propulsion gas in record time. Pellaeon watched as, less than five minutes from Thrawn’s takeover, a new squadron of fighters took off from the hangar, their weapons tubes filled not with torpedoes but with spores.

The heat-based webbing over the spores which kept them from sticking to the TIE fighters’ tubes froze and fractured as soon as they entered the cold vacuum of space. Pellaeon watched as the webbing disappeared entirely and the spores impacted against enemy ships, their adhesive coating now fully functional.

And just like Thrawn had predicted, the enemy’s fleet movements ground to a halt. 

As they floundered, some of them half-heartedly maintaining defense operations while inside their ships the crew scrambled to decontaminate, the TIEs rallied around each other in a new formation. The outer line of defense, no doubt instructed to stand firm and sacrifice themselves in the face of biological warfare, was the most dangerous adversary, but in terms of numbers, they were no match for the TIEs. And after the defense line fell, the enemy’s flagship yawed starboard too slowly to train its weapons on the squadron that took it down.

Pellaeon glanced at his chrono. The battle was over; it hadn’t even lasted ten minutes. Around the bridge, the officers glanced at each other, their expressions cryptic and closed-off but faintly impressed, faintly approving. For many of them, this was their first real-life opportunity to see Grand Admiral Thrawn in action.

Pellaeon felt an echo of a glow — a vague surge of emotion left over from his own first experience with Thrawn. As the cleanup procedure began, he could see the clone watching him, eyes glowing intensely, face carefully composed.

Waiting for approval, Pellaeon thought. When the clone didn’t subside on his own, didn’t resume his position at the back of the bridge where he was out of the way, Pellaeon revised his opinion: _Needing_ approval, hungry for it, waiting for it the same way a dog waited for scraps at the table. This, too, Pellaeon recognized; remembered it from himself, from his days as a captain when he analyzed every minuscule flex of muscle on Thrawn's face in search of some sign that his actions were appreciated, that his tactics earned the recognition they deserved.

He'd never seen Thrawn look at anyone this way. His throat was tight, his heart pounding. Common decency urged him to speak up, to give the clone an acknowledging nod or a gruff, "Good work," at the very least. He watched out of the corner of his eye as seconds ticked by and the clone's expression splintered, then built itself back up again into a wooden mask.

Pellaeon couldn’t bring himself to speak. 


	13. Chapter 13

They sat opposite each other at one of the small foldout tables in the officers’ mess, their empty trays pushed aside to make room for datapads. Thrawn's back was to the rest of the galley, a position which made his shoulders tense up and his face tighten at intervals, though on the whole, he seemed relaxed and unaffected. Pellaeon glanced at him every now and then, observing first the carefully-controlled expression of concentration on his face, observing second the way his long fingers curled around his mug of caf, the way his lips parted around the rim whenever he took a sip. 

Moments like these, Pellaeon felt almost like he was sitting with the original. His quiet mealtimes with the clone matched his quiet mealtimes with Thrawn so perfectly that his mind sometimes slipped into a certain familiar pattern, convincing him just for a moment that nothing had changed. 

Until something happened to disrupt that pattern.

Over Thrawn’s shoulder, he saw a group of mid-ranking officers approaching. Commander Carter of the hangar bay, Major Halloran of stormtrooper command, Lieutenants Ghitley and Snibe of bridge crew…

Carter took the one empty chair at Pellaeon’s side, angling it slightly so that when he sat down, he was facing Thrawn. The other three officers remained standing, grouped around the clone.

“Good showing with the pirates, sir,” said Carter, his voice respectful.

Thrawn gave him an almost-blank look in return; he didn’t quite manage to erase the traces of dry amusement in his eyes, but when he spoke, his tone was smooth and polite. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Just like the original,” Major Halloran put in. “I served with him on a ground mission once on Tatooine, back when I first enlisted. Couldn’t have been more than nineteen.”

“I remember,” Thrawn said.

Pellaeon’s eyes shifted from one man to the next, a sinking sensation dragging through his chest when he realized what was bothering him: although they sat at the same table as him and were more than willing to engage with Thrawn, none of them would meet Pellaeon’s eyes. They’d all either angled their bodies away from him or were staring at Thrawn with resolute, unnatural stillness, refusing to turn their heads in case they caught a glimpse of the admiral across the table. 

“You remember?” asked Lieutenant Snibe. There was nothing disrespectful about his tone, but the sinking feeling only got worse. Thrawn turned his head to look at the lieutenant, leaving the major and commander outside his peripheral view. 

“I do,” said Thrawn mildly.

“We just weren’t sure the Grand Admiral bothered with little details like that, sir,” Major Halloran put in. Thrawn turned his head again, sacrificing his view of the lieutenants to look at Halloran, and this time, Pellaeon could see a hint of strain enter his eyes. Part of him wanted to intervene, to send the officers back to their seats, but to step in and protect Thrawn would do him no favors.

“Of course,” Thrawn said. “I had all my memories downloaded via instant transfer. No detail is too small to be remembered.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Lieutenant Ghitley, and this time, without changing his expression, Thrawn scooted his chair back from the table so that he could see all four men without turning around. They reacted at once, the casual immediacy of their actions suggesting they’d planned for this; Commander Carter moved closer to Pellaeon, while Lieutenant Snibe took two steps toward the center of the galley and Lieutenant Ghitley and Major Halloran shrank backward on either side. The farther they spread out, the more difficult it was for Thrawn to keep each one of them in view.

“Are you going to choose a new name for yourself, sir?” asked Carter innocently, jumping in with the question before Thrawn could object to the new formation. His face was perfectly blank as he met Carter’s eyes.

“A new name, Commander?” asked Thrawn, politely curious.

“You deserve your own name, don’t you?” put in Major Halloran. Pellaeon could see Thrawn’s shoulders shift minutely as he resisted the urge to turn and look at the major, refusing to play such a petty, childish game.

“My current name is perfectly serviceable,” Thrawn said. He took a sip of caf and turned his eyes to his datapad, signaling the conversation was over. With the old Thrawn, it would have worked.

“But you’re your own person,” said Lieutenant Snibe. “You don’t have to go by the name of a dead man.”

Pellaeon bit his bottom lip viciously, resisting the urge to step in. He needed to see how Thrawn would handle this — and since he wasn't getting any exasperated or beseeching looks from Thrawn, he could only assume the clone wanted to handle it by himself, too.

“Memories are meaningless,” Carter put in. “Just because you remember what the Grand Admiral did doesn’t mean you’re the same person.”

“Ah,” said Thrawn, scrolling disinterestedly through a report on his datapad. “And therefore my orders mustn’t necessarily be obeyed?”

“Not at all,” said Halloran, shifting his feet. Thrawn’s wrist twitched in response, a minuscule flinch that nearly caused the caf in his mug to spill. “You’re our commanding officer, sir," said Halloran. His voice was casual, like he hadn't noticed the flinch, but his eyes had sharpened the same way a predator's did when it found its prey. "We’ll obey your orders no matter what.”

“What we’re saying,” Carter put in, “is that you may have the same rank and memories, but that doesn’t mean you’re beholden to his history. Or his responsibilities, for that matter.”

Thrawn set his mug down carefully and dipped his eyelids in what Pellaeon knew from long experience was the Chiss version of an eyeroll. The other officers didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s not your burden to bear, sir,” said Lieutenant Snibe, laying the sympathy on a little too thick. He lifted a hand while Thrawn was staring down at his datapad and placed it gently on the Grand Admiral’s back.

Thrawn’s expression didn’t change. His gaze was frozen, unmoving, on the datapad; his chest stopped its steady rise and fall as if he’d forgotten he was supposed to breathe. 

“That’s enough,” said Pellaeon sharply. “The Grand Admiral and I have work to do. You’re dismissed.”

Thrawn’s eyes remained fixed where they were, as if he didn’t hear Pellaeon’s voice. He didn’t react when the officers reluctantly moved away or when the hand was removed from his back. His fingers gripped the datapad so tightly that his knuckles were turning white-blue; his shoulders were a tense line.

Pellaeon turned back to his own datapad, deliberately keeping his eyes off Thrawn.

“Thrawn?” he said quietly, his lips barely moving.

Across the table, there was no response. It was a full minute before Thrawn took a shallow, shuddering breath — but a quick glance upward showed Pellaeon that this breath was not necessarily a sign of progress. Thrawn's eyes were flickering rapidly, unseeingly; his chest rose and fell in a series of harsh gasps. His expression was embarrassingly easy to read, visible to anyone in the galley who looked their way — an expression of untempered confusion and fear.

And suddenly, it seemed like _everyone_ in the galley was looking their way.

Pellaeon watched as, across from him, Thrawn attempted to control himself. His eyes drifted shut, his lips parting, a look of nausea and anxiety passing over his face. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down the side of his neck, soaking into his tunic collar. Gradually, he lifted one trembling hand and twisted his fingers in his uniform, above his heart, kneading and massaging at the area where the original Thrawn had received his fatal wound.

Around the officers’ mess, Pellaeon could see his men watching and whispering to each other. There was no hope of the episode going unnoticed. Word of it would inevitably spread from here; he could do nothing but attempt to mitigate further embarrassment. With a carefully blank face, as if nothing odd was happening, Pellaeon reached across the table and rapped his fork against Thrawn’s knuckles.

Thrawn opened his eyes, fixing them in Pellaeon’s direction but not seeming to see him.

“Are you going to finish your caf?” asked Pellaeon gruffly.

Slowly, Thrawn’s eyes shifted down to the mug abandoned near his elbow. It took him forty-five painful seconds to release his grip on his tunic, another fifteen to let the datapad go and set his hands down flat against the tabletop. The cold plastisteel must have helped ground him, because a moment later, Pellaeon saw his shoulders slump ever so slightly, watched his breathing grow deeper and slow down slightly even as it became more ragged. Thrawn’s eyes darted from one end of the table to the next, cataloging tiny inconsequential details — but no longer glassy, no longer fogged by memory.

He took his caf in both hands, held it close to him for a moment as he caught his breath. The sweat on his forehead was drying now, his hair still damp and in a minor state of disarray. A tremor went through his shoulders as he met Pellaeon’s eyes, the fearful expression locked up and under control.

“Four minutes,” Pellaeon told him, since he could see the question in Thrawn’s eyes. Then, covering his mouth with his own cup of caf so no one in the mess could read his lips, “When you’re ready to walk again, we can leave.”

Beneath the table, he could feel Thrawn’s leg not quite touching his, the fabric of their uniform trousers just barely brushing against each other; Thrawn was shaking so violently that he couldn’t stand. If Pellaeon could _feel_ it, then the rest of the officers’ mess could almost certainly _see_ it, and when he glanced at Thrawn, he knew from the quiet look of self-recrimination that Thrawn had realized this too, knew that no amount of false composure could hide his trembling. 

Another minute passed. The shaking subsided, still present but no longer crippling, and Pellaeon saw Thrawn shifting his legs beneath the table, subtly testing their ability to hold his weight. His face was drawn; he looked as though he'd aged ten years in as many minutes. 

“Ready,” Thrawn said. He hadn’t taken a single drink of his caf since the episode began; when he stood, abandoning the cup on the table, Pellaeon could see it had gone cold.

As they left, Pellaeon heard a whispered fragment of a comment, barely audible, that echoed his own thoughts so perfectly it gave him chills. It came from an officer near the door, a communications trainee who was hunched over, eyeing Thrawn as he whispered in a shipmate's ear: 

“...clones can be unstable...”

Glancing sideways at Thrawn, taking in his shuttered expression and tightly pursed lips, Pellaeon didn’t have to wonder whether he’d heard it too. 


	14. Chapter 14

“A perfectly normal reaction,” Thrawn told him later, his eyes hard, “to an unreasonable situation.”

He was sitting on his bed when he said it, still in uniform, with his back firmly against the wall. They’d walked straight to Thrawn’s quarters as soon as he was able to stand, but it had been a slow and halting walk, his stride uneven and shaky. Now he held a cup of tea in his hands, ignoring it the same way he’d ignored his caf, but still letting the warmth leak into his palms.

“I believe you,” Pellaeon said, the words coming out hollow. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the door. 

“It is not Spaarti cylinder-induced instability,” Thrawn continued almost insistently. “It’s a simple nervous system reaction. Fight-or-flight, as you call it — the same as on a battlefield.” He paused, giving Pellaeon time to speak, and then continued, his speech slow and pronounced with crisp dignity. “I am training myself to overcome it. The knives...”

Pellaeon said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thrawn wipe sweat from his forehead.

“Anyone in my situation…” Thrawn started, his voice so soft Pellaeon could barely hear him. He paused, recalibrated, started again. His voice was more firm this time, but it didn’t last long. “Even before I entered this new body, if I had ever experienced what the New Republic…”

He trailed off again. In the ensuing silence, Pellaeon lowered his chin and stared down at the floor, at the polished toes of his boots. It was easier to think when he didn’t have to look at Thrawn. 

“You don’t need to convince me,” he said.

Thrawn opened his mouth and closed it again without responding. He held the cup of tea in one hand, still not drinking it, and with his other hand, he rubbed absent-mindedly at his opposite arm. Pellaeon couldn’t tell if this was a cognizant gesture — an attempt to get rid of lingering numbness or tingling from the episode in the officers’ mess — or some sort of unconscious soothing motion, and he decided he didn’t want to ask. He couldn’t stand to think of Thrawn in the same terms as a child, soothed by rocking and sucking at its fingers. The idea repulsed him; he was sure it would have repulsed Thrawn even more.

But his mind ticked back over the episode in the galley. He hesitated.

“They have Mind Healers,” Pellaeon started uncertainly, his own experience with so-called mind healers so limited that he couldn’t recommend it, wasn’t sure he believed in the principle at all. Thrawn’s expression was frozen in something like a scowl. “You could…”

“No,” said Thrawn, his voice sharp. He seemed to flinch at his own words, a look of pinched confusion briefly crossing his face. “No,” he said again.

For a long moment, there was nothing between them but silence, a silence that felt thick and unbreakable. Gradually, Thrawn stopped rubbing his arm and rested his palm against his chest instead, his touch light and probing, as if testing for rawness or any lingering pain. 

“Some of the men remember C’baoth,” he murmured, his eyes hooded, his face difficult to read. “The new clones are stable, but they’ll remember _him_. They’ll draw comparisons. His instability and mine.” 

The right thing to say might have been ‘You’re not unstable.’ Pellaeon felt the words dissolve and dry on his tongue, leaving a sour taste behind. He couldn’t voice that kind of platitude with Thrawn; he couldn’t say what he didn’t believe. When the silence dragged on too long without a reply, Thrawn looked up at him, their eyes meeting briefly, Thrawn’s face open and vulnerable.

Pellaeon assembled his features into a mask two seconds too late. He watched Thrawn blink, watched his expression fracture and settle into a mask as well. It was too easy to see him struggling for dignity now, refusing to let this revelation hurt him. 

“I see,” Thrawn said, looking away. 

And it was impossible for Pellaeon to take it back. 

* * *

It was past midnight when Thrawn darkened his datapad screen and set it aside. He did not push away from the desk; he sat there, hesitating, his eyes drawn inexorably to the top drawer.

He’d made a habit of opening it, examining the contents, and closing it again without touching anything. Today would not be the same. Opening the drawer, he found his art supplies where he had left them, the pencils and pastels still neatly arrayed, the paint tubes secured in a plastic tray. 

For a long moment he only stared at them, eyes flickering from one item to the next. To an outsider, the thin set of his lips and deep furrow between his eyebrows would have made him look grimly determined, and perhaps that was exactly how he felt. There was familiarity here, but no joy. Only dread.

Gingerly, he lifted a sheaf of flimsi from the drawer and sifted through the stack. He remembered all the drawings there, could pick out flaws he hadn’t seen before — as was always the case when he returned to his own work. He set them aside, leaving one blank sheet of flimsi on the desk before him. 

His hands were flat, palm-down, not touching the paper. He frowned down at it; he was utterly still. 

He wanted to draw.

He did not want to draw.

He was not breathing.

Thrawn let his breath out in a slow sigh and reached for a pencil, its point dull after eleven years of disuse. The fingers of his left hand wrapped around it, the grip awkward and unsure, and after a moment, he manually reconfigured his hand until the pencil felt right. 

Being tense about it wouldn’t help. He rolled his shoulders, relaxed against the seat, and set the pencil to paper for the first time in this new body’s life. A series of light strokes — hatch marks — filled the corner of the page, getting steadily darker. A looped figure, crude and loose and amorphous, followed next, until the relaxation he was feigning became more real.

When he’d filled the page up with nonsense marks, he turned it over and stared at the blankness waiting for him. He’d had a favorite subject once; a certain face he could imagine from any angle and draw at any time. It had changed a little in the past eleven years; grown more gaunt, the bags beneath the eyes deepening, the hair growing light and thin. 

Thrawn took a slow, deep breath to center himself and started to sketch. Ten minutes in, the line between his eyebrows had grown deeper, his frown more harsh. 

The planes of Pellaeon’s face were crooked and curved. The anatomical spacing — he could picture it perfectly in his mind — did not translate to the page. His lines were too harsh, the shapes too disconnected, the shadows messy and wrong. The pencil wouldn’t follow his commands.

He was staring at a child’s drawing. The flaws were too many to count; his hand was too unskilled to correct them. 

Thrawn stared at the drawing, so foreign to him, so different to what he remembered, and after a long moment, he stacked it with the rest and put them all away.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is technically a chapter and a half. It felt awkward to make them separate chapters, but also awkward to include them in the same one, so I've separated them with the word "CODA" in bold.

The clone was training too hard again. It was Pellaeon’s policy to leave him alone, let him ruin his hands if he wanted to — but their meeting with the Hand was coming up fast, and he could think of nothing more uncomfortable than delivering a damaged product to Parck and the rest of the Thrawn fanatics. He could picture it all too easily — the Chiss warriors eyeing Thrawn’s bruised knuckles with disapproval, the former Imperials looking judgmentally at Pellaeon as if it were his responsibility to keep Thrawn safe.

His gut twisted. He saw a flash of memory pass before his eyes: a bloodied white tunic, the tip of a knife piercing blue flesh, a red glow turning dull.

More reason why they shouldn’t trust him, he thought, the dark humor doing nothing to calm his heart rate. He’d already proven Thrawn’s safety was beyond his scope.

He entered the training dojo nonetheless, determined to put a stop to this. As soon as the door swung shut behind him, he noticed the immense changes since the last time he’d been here. First was that the dojo was empty, its usual crowd of young men nowhere to be seen. Second was that Thrawn had upgraded his training technique since the last time Pellaeon stepped in; his undershirt was discarded on the floor, his bare chest slick with sweat as he fought two combat droids instead of one.

Pellaeon barely made it five steps before Thrawn pulled out of his fighting stance and commanded the droids to halt. They stopped immediately and entered an automatic cool-down period as Thrawn, his chest rising in deep panting breaths, turned to face Pellaeon. He was already unwrapping his hands; the bandages were, like last time, stained with blood.

Silently, Pellaeon bridged the gap between them and took Thrawn’s hands in his own. He studied the raw red abrasions over his knuckles, the minute lacerations running up and down his fingers, the harsh-looking scrapes on the side and heel of each palm.

He glanced up and met Thrawn’s eyes, one eyebrow raised.

“Spar with me,” Thrawn said, his fingers closing around Pellaeon’s.

Now both eyebrows were raised. Pellaeon released Thrawn’s hands and stepped back, projecting his lack of amusement as hard as he could; Thrawn didn’t seem to notice. He turned to stare at the combat droids, their eyes lifeless, their mechanical limbs hanging limply at their sides.

“I remember a lifetime of combat,” Thrawn said conversationally, his face turned away. “I downloaded every memory of conflict. I had the memories wired into my muscles so my body wouldn’t forget.”

The sheer uselessness of these words made Pellaeon's temper spike. He already knew all that — and Thrawn knew he knew it, too, just like Thrawn knew what Pellaeon really wanted to ask and was deliberately side-stepping the question.

“If you remember it,” said Pellaeon through gritted teeth, “then why do you continue to push yourself like this? There’s nothing to make up for, Thrawn.” He gestured toward the droids in exasperation. “You know I saw the original in combat, so trust me when I say you’re every inch as competent _now_ as you ever were. Better, even; younger, stronger.”

The clone didn’t turn to face him. His posture seemed relaxed, his voice almost meditative.

“I don’t remember learning how to draw,” he said.

Pellaeon’s anger faltered. He stared at the back of Thrawn’s head for a long moment, the blue-black hair damp with sweat. When he circled around the clone, he found Thrawn’s face solemn and stoic, his eyes far away. There was no self-pity there, only a faintly melancholy type of contemplation.

“You don’t remember drawing?” asked Pellaeon carefully.

Thrawn kept his eyes on the droids. “I remember picking up my pencil,” he said. “I remember that I preferred pastels, but trained myself to use charcoal and paint as well. And I recall examining my work for flaws, painstakingly correcting them — but I don’t remember the act of drawing itself.” As an afterthought, he added, “Nor painting, nor sculpting. In total, my memories of drawing add up to perhaps six hours of experience. Enough to impart the lessons I learned from my own artwork. No more.”

Pellaeon remembered the sketches he’d seen in Thrawn’s drawer, his heart beating faster. “You’re out of practice,” he said, remembering the evidence he’d seen of Thrawn’s hard work, how many times he tried the same sketch from the same angle until he had it perfected. “It’s been eleven years—”

There was a minute shake of the head.

“It is not an intrinsic skill of mine,” said the clone evenly, without emotion. “I made the decision not to download those memories. They are gone.”

“You told me you had _all_ of Thrawn’s memories,” Pellaeon said, stepping closer. Finally, the clone met his gaze, his red eyes glittering with a sudden unexpected fire. His jaw was clenched; instead of backing away when Pellaeon entered his personal space, he only drew himself up taller and looked down on the admiral with all the cold intensity Pellaeon remembered.

“I have all the memories I deemed necessary,” Thrawn said, his voice low. 

There was silence between them. Pellaeon’s eyes drifted down Thrawn’s bare chest, over his scars. None of them were more than a year old, he thought; though he’d always known this on some level, he’d never truly realized it before.

“Spar with me,” Thrawn said again, shifting his stance wider. He raised his hands into a defensive position, palms open, face guarded. Glancing down, Pellaeon saw Thrawn was standing on the balls of his feet, ready to fight or dodge.

He snorted. “You want me to fight you _now_ _?”_ he said. “Before, at least, we were closer in age. But even then, you never…”

“You’re a worthy opponent,” said Thrawn doggedly. His eyes shifted down Pellaeon’s uniform. “If you take your tunic off first. I don’t want to fight you when you’re disadvantaged.”

Pellaeon’s eyes darted down to Thrawn’s wounded hands. When Thrawn spoke again, his voice was rough.

“I am not a child,” he said. “I don’t need a protector, Gilad. I need a _partner_ _._ So spar with me.”

It wasn’t the most convincing argument Pellaeon had ever heard, but it _was_ compelling — it was exactly what he wanted to believe, what he argued with himself over each night, and he wasn’t surprised to hear Thrawn tap into that desire now. Nor was he surprised that, even though he recognized it as manipulation, it was working.

Pellaeon heard a small, wise voice telling him not to do this, but he was — no matter how old he got — still a Corellian, and he could feel his blood warming to the idea. Perhaps he’d been gearing for a fight ever since he stepped into the dojo and saw Thrawn’s half-dressed state, the sheen of sweat over his muscles igniting some animalistic urge for entertainment, for a fight.

He unbuttoned his tunic and let it slip off his shoulders to the floor. With a casual swipe of his foot, he went to kick it aside — and instead launched it upward, into Thrawn’s face.

The fight began without a word. Thrawn dodged the tunic easily, ducking away before Pellaeon’s resulting blow could strike him. He came in from underneath the tunic as it was still rising, a flurry of fists — dimly, it occurred to Pellaeon too late that he was still wearing his boots, a fact that slowed his kicks and simultaneously gave them more punch. His boot grazed Thrawn’s thigh but didn’t seem to faze him; with a quick whirl, Thrawn was past Pellaeon’s line of defense.

A fist broke through Pellaeon’s facial guard; he felt a spike of teeth-clicking pain as it glanced off his jaw. He struck out wildly, managed to hit Thrawn on the bicep or forearm — he couldn’t see, couldn’t tell — and then felt an ankle hook around the back of his leg, and Thrawn’s knee driving him right to the floor. 

It was over quickly, as most fights were. Pellaeon found himself winded and on his back, staring up not at the ceiling but at Thrawn’s composed face. Thrawn had him pinned, one arm outstretched to keep both Pellaeon’s wrists on the mat; with his arm outstretched like that, arcing close to Pellaeon’s face, he could smell nothing but the heady, spicy scent of Thrawn’s sweat. Thrawn’s thighs were hard with muscle and so warm they seemed to be burning right through his trousers and into Pellaeon’s hips.

It was a good fight, Pellaeon thought, brief though it was. He caught his breath, elated by the rush of adrenaline, ready to yield and get back up for more. It had been too long since he had anyone to spar with, anyone who didn’t shy from his rank and go easy on him.

But he could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against Thrawn’s thigh, and he knew there wouldn’t be another round. He saw the flicker of expression over Thrawn’s face as he noticed the bulge too; Pellaeon’s breathing slowed, caught in his throat as he studied Thrawn, waited to see how he would react. 

_Protecting the child,_ a treacherous voice inside his head whispered.

There was nothing on Thrawn’s face to read. When he stood up, releasing Pellaeon, he held out a helping hand which Pellaeon did not accept. He climbed to his feet on his own, cheeks hot, and turned away.

Not a single word passed between them as Pellaeon fled. 

* * *

**CODA**

It wasn’t a sense of embarrassment that made him leave so quickly, Pellaeon thought later, when his blood had cooled. He’d become aroused during fights before; the standard method to cope with that among soldiers was to laugh it off; act like it meant nothing, and it _would_ mean nothing. But he’d never before become aroused while pinned beneath a man like Thrawn, who just a few months ago was in captivity, forced by men of all stripes to do what they wanted with him.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was shame. And the shame was only worsened by the fact that he’d left without checking first to ensure the clone was stable. And as soon as Pellaeon thought _this_ , he recognized it for what it was: a disgustingly patronizing sentiment, an implication that Thrawn was weak, that he needed protection when they both knew he didn’t, and that he wouldn’t accept it even if he did. Accepting protection was no way to grow stronger; if Thrawn sensed a weakness, he would eradicate it through stubbornness and hard work, not by asking Pellaeon to coddle him. 

The shame intensified. As the day cycle came to an end, Pellaeon ran out of ways to distract himself and had to confront it; it was his responsibility to check on the clone, to apologize. In his head, there was an image of Thrawn he couldn’t seem to banish — his chest bare, his shoulders broad, the smell of him, the look of him, all screaming to Pellaeon that this was Thrawn, _his_ Thrawn. And then he remembered something else, the hesitant way Thrawn looked at him on the bridge in search of approval, and the warmth in his chest dissipated and the shame came rushing back.

He found himself hesitating outside Thrawn’s door. There was no answer when he knocked; he considered his options — he could enter anyway, use his command cylinders to unlock the door — but to force entry would only reinforce the exact idea he was trying to countermand: that Thrawn needed protection.

He went to his own quarters instead, strangely deflated, and found Thrawn waiting for him there. 

“Sir,” said Pellaeon, stopping short. He realized what he’d said and stuttered, a swell of grief threatening to crush him. He’d never called the clone ‘sir’ before, never slipped up like that. Thrawn’s face was placid, expressionless; his body language was relaxed, difficult to read. He stayed silent until Pellaeon stopped stammering and gave up on speech altogether, unsure what to say.

Then Thrawn stepped forward, his cool hand cupping Pellaeon’s cheek. He leaned in even as Pellaeon froze, the kiss soft and chaste, his lips atypically warm. He didn’t push to go deeper this time; he didn’t touch Pellaeon anywhere else, nor did he hold himself stiffly, as if secretly wishing to escape. It was just a kiss. A normal kiss, the type you saw between people with no history, no conflict. Just attraction and a willingness to please.

The grief would not abate. Confusion swirled inside it, making everything ten times worse, making Pellaeon’s palms sweat and his scalp itch. Every conflicting thought he’d ever had about the clone wailed at him now and then sank away beneath the grief. He felt his concerns — his morals, his ideals, his self-control — drowning one piece at a time. 

He kissed Thrawn back. 


	16. Chapter 16

That morning, he opened the wooden box he’d stolen from Thrawn’s quarters and picked through the datacards. The adhesive on the labels was starting to wear off, leaving many of them curled and peeling; the script was faded, but Pellaeon could still make out everything in Aurebesh. There were datacards analyzing every section of the Core Worlds and their moons — an unbelievable amount of artwork — and even more from the Outer Rim, where Thrawn had fought to scrounge up information, and where many of the planet names were copied with love from the native script. 

One particularly well-worn datacard focused on Corellia. When Pellaeon slotted it into his datapad, he found files labeled in Old Corellian and felt his heart thaw at the sight; he hadn't known Thrawn had studied it. Here were Selonians, their faces covered and their nude figures lithe and warm; here were Corellian flame sculptures, flickering gently in the night, bringing back sense-memories of his many meetings with Thrawn in the darkened command room; here were sculpts made of wreckage and debris, abstract paintings linking death with eroticism, danger with lust. 

Corellia was an honor culture, Thrawn had told him once. Quick to anger, eager to prove themselves in a fight, but with a strict moral tradition that few could circumvent. The traces of it were clear even in Han Solo, in his widely-publicized early contempt for the Jedi which was now used as a propagandist recruiting tool by the Jedi Academy — even the most cynical among them could be convinced by the sheer power of the Force, they seemed to say. The truth was that Han Solo was as beholden to Corellia's honor culture, in his own peculiar way, as Pellaeon was.  


But what Pellaeon had done last night was not honorable. He could still taste Thrawn’s skin on his tongue. It had been languid, all-consuming, pleasurable and easy; it was like melting into another person, coming together with no effort at all.

That was what troubled him. He knew why it was easy; he knew why Thrawn needed no preparation, why he knew a hundred different tricks to amplify his partner’s pleasure by a thousand. It was useless to wonder what the original Thrawn might have been like in bed, if they’d ever gotten that far — if he would have been touch-averse or affectionate, shy or forthcoming, master or student. He would have been eager to learn, Pellaeon thought; that was the only thing he knew for certain. Eager to find out what pleased his partner, to learn how he differed from other men. 

The clone had taken him apart like it was nothing. The clone had nothing left to learn.

The reason for that circled Pellaeon’s mind like a predator searching for a vulnerable spot to attack. He’d tried his best to avoid the blackmail videos released by the New Republic — at first — but his self-resolve had crumbled day by day until finally it collapsed. Now he’d watched them all, some more than once, and could perfectly recreate every stuttering breath, every gasp and moan, inside his head.

He could picture every inch of the clone’s body, in every state of being — knew what he looked like when he was aroused, when he was drugged, when he was flaccid, when he was afraid. He could picture Thrawn under Force-control so invasive that it made his eyes roll up to the back of his head, exposing the dull scarlet color underneath. He could imagine Thrawn in pain so intense that he stopped thinking and started clawing mindlessly at the floor.

That was who he’d used last night. That was the set of circumstances that allowed Thrawn to bring Pellaeon unimaginable pleasure.

But what set of circumstances  _ caused _ it? 

If it were him — Pellaeon couldn’t be sure, would probably never know, but he thought if he were ever in the clone’s position, he would never want to be touched again. Certainly wouldn’t offer himself so freely, wouldn’t wait in another man’s room and initiate more. Wouldn’t arch into every touch so easily, so readily; wouldn’t open himself up without hesitating, pausing, being persuaded.

Thrawn had done all those things.

A symptom of trauma, Pellaeon told himself, but he wasn’t sure. He’d seen soldiers suffer grievous wounds in battle only to throw themselves back into the fray as soon as their prosthetics were attached; some men sought danger even after they’d reaped its consequences. Sometimes, they sought it out all the more for being wounded. 

Could the same happen for injuries like Thrawn’s? Could he have grown to like some part of it — the intimacy, the sense of touch, if not the people who’d provided it? Could he have grown to crave it, even, to seek it out on his own?

Did he feel any joy? Pellaeon could taste Thrawn’s skin if he closed his eyes, could smell the heady scent of arousal and feel the texture of Thrawn’s skin on his tongue, the taste of his cock salty and thick and natural; but Thrawn had barely reacted to Pellaeon’s ministrations, had grown no harder than he already was when Pellaeon took him in his mouth. His hips hadn’t twitched or bucked; he’d sat up on his elbows, his face placid and curious, and watched Pellaeon suck him off like it was a science experiment, like it didn’t affect him at all. And when Pellaeon had pulled away, too irked by that expression to stand it, Thrawn’s eyebrows had lifted and his lips quirked up in a smile, and before Pellaeon could complain, he’d pushed him onto his back and returned the favor, stealing all his words.

Did he enjoy being touched or did he want to be used? Pellaeon could think of no worse punishment for Thrawn — the original Thrawn — than to be made useless. A full year in captivity, with no task to occupy him but this — what had that done to the clone’s developing brain? What had it taught him about his skills, about the areas in which he could be useful?

Pellaeon had rescued him. As his rescuer, he felt a responsibility — perhaps an irrational one — to keep him in line, to ensure his actions did no harm to the Fleet, that he was stable. At the same time, even less rationally, he felt a responsibility to protect, to guide, to provide care. Injured animals often bonded with their rescuers. Was it possible Thrawn felt a mirrored responsibility to him, was caring for Pellaeon the only way he knew how?

With a sigh, Pellaeon rubbed the dryness out of his eyes. That was too simplistic a view; it felt right and wrong at the same time, like a jigsaw piece that was colored just right but wasn’t cut to fit the pattern. He would never know what was going on in the clone’s head unless he asked him, and Pellaeon wasn’t sure either of them wanted a conversation like that. 

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. At the very least, he could figure out what existed between them, what Thrawn expected from him — what he was willing to give. 

He entered Thrawn’s quarters wearing casual clothing instead of his uniform, wanting to emphasize that this was not a Fleet matter but a matter between two men. As he stepped inside, he saw the dim blue glow of holos in the command room and his heart jumped into his throat. The replica bridge was awash with light; Thrawn sat on his narrow bed, his legs crossed beneath him, an ysalimir perched on his forearm. His hand moved slowly, automatically, over the ysalimir’s back. There was a thick closed-up scent of isolation in the room, not unpleasant but certainly stale, and Pellaeon realized for the first time how little time Thrawn was spending outside his quarters.  


He didn’t look up when Pellaeon came in. He didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were fixed on the other room, staring blankly at an object there.

At his command chair. At the place where Thrawn had died, or the only replica of it that remained. His breathing was even and calm; his face was blank, unfocused, difficult to read.

He didn’t realize Pellaeon was there. He wasn't thinking about last night, that much was clear. Pellaeon's worries couldn't be farther from Thrawn's thoughts. 

And Pellaeon, with a sense that he was intruding on something so private and personal that to be here might be seen as a violation, simply turned and left. 


	17. Chapter 17

Visually, Nirauan was a disappointment, but Pellaeon felt a swell of elation inside his chest nonetheless when he first set eyes on it. The docks were efficiently run, he noted with approval and a hint of envy; the proud Chiss warriors attending their duties had an innate grace and sense of power to them that put most Imperial soldiers to shame. He sneaked a glance at Thrawn, who was watching out the viewport with a detached expression, as if he’d seen the planet and its men a thousand times.

Of course, he had. 

He seemed to recognize the delegation that met them when they disembarked; Pellaeon nodded at Fel and Parck, his eyes hard, and ignored the Chiss warriors assembled next to them, not certain who they were or whether they spoke Basic. A young man stood at the front of the Chiss formation, his chest puffed out and his eyes burning a hole into Thrawn’s head.

This was a group, Pellaeon realized, who for all their fanaticism, would not be easily convinced.

As they strode toward the information complex, the ex-Imperials flanked Pellaeon, engaging him in easy conversation, while Thrawn conferred with his countrymen. Even with Parck and Fel distracting him, Pellaeon could make out what was going on: they were speaking in Cheunh, the young commander’s tone harsh and challenging, the others piping up from time to time to add to the barrage. They were speaking quickly enough to ignite Pellaeon's suspicions; frank communication did not seem to be their primary goal. 

Thrawn’s replies were measured, thoughtful, calm. If he noticed that his warriors expected him not to fully understand his own language, he didn’t let it show. 

And when he gave them orders, Pellaeon noticed, the warriors still obeyed. He watched one of them fetch a strange-looking datapad at Thrawn’s command; the Chiss scowled as he left, but he obeyed immediately and with haste nonetheless.

Pellaeon glanced at Parck and Fel; they’d stopped trying to distract him, were looking on now with two very different expressions on their faces. Hope and approval on Fel’s; doubtfulness on Parck’s. 

When Thrawn spoke to them, they gave him whatever information he wanted, Park’s voice careful and guarded. When he mused about plans for the future, they both stayed silent; he turned to look at them, to gauge their reactions, and saw a sea of uncomfortable and closed-off faces staring back at him. Sometimes, Pellaeon was the only man who would meet his eyes.

But it was worse with the Chiss. Their sense of conflict was thinly-veiled; a cultural difference, Thrawn had told him on the flight over, that had to do with the Chiss concept of identity and a social taboo about clones. But it was clear even Thrawn had underestimated just how keenly this taboo would impact his men.

There was a rift between them now, Pellaeon realized. When he glanced around the room, he saw a wide gulf between Thrawn and his countrymen; it went deeper than exile, perhaps even deeper than death. The longer the meeting wore on, the less willing the men were to respond, to assist, to be guided.

A silence fell; Thrawn’s voice had grown softer and softer as he spoke, and now he stopped talking entirely, and nobody bothered to answer him. He turned from a starmap of the Unknown Regions to face the chamber, his eyes raking over the human loyalists before he turned to the Chiss.

“Commander Stent,” he said, his tone and posture subtly changing. “There is an array of personal datafiles I kept here for safekeeping before my death. Bring them for me.”

Stent’s face was a blank mask. 

“Personal datafiles?” Parck put in. Thrawn turned to face him, studying Parck a moment before he responded with a brief inclination of the head.

“Records from home,” he said.

Parck hesitated, looking for a moment like he had something to say, but then he subsided with a nod. Nobody moved to retrieve the items; glancing around, Pellaeon located an ornate locked door on the other side of the chamber. An indefinable air of disuse hung about it, and he would wager anything that this was Thrawn’s former command room, where the records were located.

“Commander Stent,” Thrawn prompted.

Expression unchanging, Stent said, “I cannot release the Syndic’s personal files to anyone without his express permission.” 

Pellaeon stiffened; next to him, Thrawn didn’t react at all. 

“They are inconsequential items, of sentimental value only,” he said, his voice even. “You are permitted to examine them and verify my claims. You will find no classified information hidden there.” 

Stent shook his head. Pellaeon glanced at Parck, waiting for him to support Thrawn’s order, but either he had no authority over the Chiss warriors or he’d decided not to intervene. Thrawn absorbed Stent’s answer, his face closed-off, his posture dignified and composed. 

But when he spoke again, his voice was very soft.

“They include letters and holos from my brother,” he said. 

“They are not yours to take,” Stent said. His voice was almost gentle, but his tone was firm; there would be no budging him. “You are permitted to see them, but not to touch or take. Those files were the Syndic’s.”

The unsubtle message could not be ignored; if the clone was not accepted as Thrawn, then he could not take command, and his orders would not be obeyed. Thrawn paused, his head tilted to the side as he studied Stent. He made a measured gesture toward the starmap.

“Then you will not accept my assistance?” he asked mildly. 

“On the contrary,” said Stent. “We are glad to accept enlistments from capable soldiers. What we will not accept is leadership from a man who has never proved himself in combat and has no true identity of his own.” 

Thrawn said nothing for a moment. He did not look to the ex-Imperials for help. Expression unchanging, he inclined his head and, with a subtle gesture to Pellaeon, indicated it was time to go. It was a relief to leave, Pellaeon thought; the Empire of the Hand, with its grand vision of honorable war and its vast arrays of nonhuman soldiers and technologies, would have been endlessly appealing to him eleven years ago, when the Imperial structure of Palpatine’s days still lingered. Now, the Hand had nothing to offer him. And nothing to offer Thrawn either, it seemed.

He was detained only briefly on the way out; Parck grabbed his arm and silently tilted his head toward a private room, indicating Pellaeon should follow him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thrawn striding away like nothing had happened — pretending not to notice, letting Pellaeon make his own decisions.

Pellaeon followed Parck. He listened to him speak; he took the object given to him, but he made no promises — and privately, he made no decisions. Slipping the capsule into his tunic pocket, he joined Thrawn in the shuttle. 

Only when they were lifting off from Nirauan an hour later did Pellaeon force himself to address what had happened between Thrawn and the Household Phalanx.

“Not the reception you expected,” he said.

“Not far from my expectations at all, in fact,” Thrawn said.

Pellaeon eyed him, unable to read any emotion from Thrawn’s face. “You hardly seem disheartened,” he noted. 

There was no immediate reply. With a thoughtful exhalation, Thrawn turned in his seat to face Pellaeon. “I have my duties,” he said. “And I have been required to prove myself many times in the past. I have no doubt I can do it again.”

“You’ll start over then?” Pellaeon asked. “As a foot soldier, under that upstart’s command?”

“Commander Stent is an excellent warrior,” said Thrawn. “And I will do what needs to be done, Gilad. I’ve been a foot soldier before.”

Silence fell; Pellaeon wasn’t sure what he’d expected Thrawn to say, but this — it relieved the weight on his heart, if only a little. It was the calm, intellectually humble response he would have expected from the old Thrawn.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t see a certain faint exhaustion clinging to Thrawn’s shoulders or the muted hurt in his eyes. To be rejected by his own Empire, to be denied access to his own personal effects…

Pellaeon remembered the box of datacards hidden away in his quarters with a sudden pang. He gave an involuntary flush when Thrawn spoke again.

“I would prefer it,” Thrawn said hesitantly, “if you came with me.”

Something twisted inside Pellaeon’s chest. He looked away.

“I know you would,” he said, staring out the viewport at Nirauan. Eleven years ago — even one year ago — he would have jumped at the offer to join Thrawn, even with so modest a beginning. He let his breath out in a sigh.

“But I have an empire to run,” he said.


	18. Chapter 18

The long ride back to the _Chimaera_ might have passed in utter silence. Thrawn was in a contemplative mood; he sat with his hands folded on his knee and his face turned toward the viewport, busying himself with nothing but his own thoughts. Inside Pellaeon’s pocket, the item Parck had given to him seemed illogically heavy. He found himself replaying Parck’s words — Stent’s denial of Thrawn’s request — the awkward air between Thrawn and his former loyalists as he attempted to access their plans.

Thrawn had stolen datacards from the Hand, Pellaeon knew; he’d seen the other man organizing them in his carrier after they left. But he hadn’t taken them out to study them even once, seemed almost like he’d forgotten they were there. It rubbed Pellaeon the wrong way — to see evidence of the original Thrawn’s craftiness at work, and then to see the fruits of that labor tucked away and ignored.

All because of those personal datafiles, he supposed, and he couldn’t blame the clone for that. If this was how he dealt with his emotions, it wasn’t Pellaeon’s place to criticize; he’d take this level of composed thoughtfulness over the brash hysterics he’d seen from some Imperial officers any day. 

But the indignity of the whole encounter stung. There were hints of insubordination and discontent in the Empire — Commander Carter and his goons came to mind — but it was nothing like the cold, flat denial of Thrawn’s identity that he’d seen from Stent. 

Who could say which response was right and which was wrong? That question had haunted Pellaeon from the moment he entered Senator Malfi’s private room and saw the clone strapped to the bed. He'd chosen to humor Thrawn, to give him as many concessions as possible, to avoid hurting him while simultaneously keeping the Imperial machine on track; Stent had been more blunt, had failed to take the clone's personal identity into account. But that didn't necessarily mean he was wrong and Pellaeon was right. With so little known about clones — specifically about _Chiss_ clones, and a Chiss as unique as Thrawn — it was impossible to say whether he might someday usurp the original’s rank without any issues. But his service _would_ be a benefit to any military, no matter what — Pellaeon believed that firmly, and that was why he found Stent’s decision so hard to stomach.

And at the same time, so difficult to condemn. By humoring Thrawn’s chosen identity, by coddling his emotions and allowing him to choose his own path — certainly, Pellaeon was winning himself favors with the clone, but what was he doing to the Empire, and how was he impacting his relationship with his men? How much of his own motivation could be tied to those favors, to the way Thrawn spoke to him now, came to him for company, touched him for comfort? 

He let his breath out in a sigh through clenched teeth.

“You’re troubled by Stent’s treatment of me,” Thrawn said without looking away from the viewport. 

Pellaeon shook his head in exasperation. He rubbed his eyes.

“You fear he’s made the correct decision,” Thrawn continued. He glanced at Pellaeon, one eyebrow raised. “And that you have made the wrong one.”

“You want to talk about this?” Pellaeon asked, his voice flat.

There was a pause; he was, in an exhausted way, glad that Thrawn at least gave the question some serious consideration.

“Yes,” Thrawn said eventually. “I would like to hear your thoughts.”

“My honest thoughts?” Pellaeon asked, giving Thrawn another out. His stomach twisted, half-relief and half-nervous anticipation. 

“There is little to be gained from lying to me,” Thrawn said. When Pellaeon stayed silent, Thrawn shifted in his seat and continued, “You think perhaps if you tell me what I want to hear, I will ignore the evidence of deceit and let myself be comforted. You know better than that, Gilad. I will not push evidence aside to accept your claims based solely on distorted emotional reasoning.”

 _And I will not respect you if you lie_ — that part went unsaid. Pellaeon sat up with a weary sigh.

“I understand,” he said. “But Thrawn, you asked for this.”

Thrawn didn’t respond. He was waiting for Pellaeon to speak. 

“You look like the original Thrawn,” said Pellaeon, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “You have all his memories and you might consider yourself the same person, but you’re not.”

Thrawn said nothing; his face was impossible to read, and suddenly Pellaeon couldn’t bear this: facing the seat, sneaking glances. He stood, his movements jerky and flustered, and moved across the aisle, sitting down again in the seat right next to Thrawn. Their arms brushed against each other; Thrawn met his eyes.

“I’m saying this because you need to hear it,” Pellaeon said, his voice soft. “After what happened on Nirauan, you need to understand. You’re not beholden to Thrawn’s responsibilities. His name, his family, his history — none of that is yours unless you choose it; none of that burden is yours to bear unless you decide to take it on. You don’t have to make the same decisions he did. You don’t need to walk a path determined by a dead man. Do you understand?”

He found himself gripping Thrawn’s arm urgently, willing him to listen. 

“You say this to comfort me,” Thrawn said, his voice toneless.

Pellaeon loosened his grip. “I do,” he said. "But that doesn't mean it's not true."

Thrawn’s eyes hardened, but he didn’t pull away.

“I feel the full weight of my memories whether I choose to or not,” he said. “You know the responsibilities I bear; do not insult me by suggesting I abandon them now.”

Pellaeon thought of Stent and the other Chiss warriors, their faces hard and uninviting. “You may not have a _choice_ ,” he said.

“There’s always a choice,” said Thrawn. His jaw tightened. “I have all the tools I need to define my identity, and I _have_ defined it. I remember the way you used to look at me, Gilad.”

Heart pounding, Pellaeon looked away.

“Your eyes are always guarded now,” Thrawn said. “Your grief blinds you. You’ve mourned for me and you cannot take that back; you treat me with respect, you indulge my beliefs, but internally, you refuse to accept me as the same Thrawn you knew and served with eleven years ago.” 

He was waiting for a response, that much was clear, but Pellaeon couldn’t speak; his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He suddenly felt much too close to Thrawn; the minor point of contact where their arms touched almost seemed to burn. He breathed thinly through his nose, careful to control his breathing, simultaneously not getting enough air.

When Thrawn finally turned away and looked out the viewport again, Pellaeon nearly collapsed with relief.

“I’ve made my peace with it,” Thrawn murmured. “It is possible that my identity will never be endorsed by either your empire or mine.”

His arm shifted; Pellaeon almost didn’t notice until he felt Thrawn’s broad hand covering his own, his palm icy and dry. He looked up sharply, eyebrows furrowed, and saw Thrawn still staring out the viewport. His eyes were distant, his face melancholy and far away.

“But other people’s opinions will not stop me from doing what must be done,” Thrawn said. 

“As a foot soldier,” said Pellaeon, his voice flat.

He watched Thrawn’s jaw tighten in anger. 

“It’s _beneath_ you,” Pellaeon said. “You were a Grand Admiral once; you may not ever be one again, but it’s a waste of time and talent to relegate you to the infantry, or to a fighter squadron.”

“I cannot lead,” Thrawn said, his agitation muted but clear. “I cannot give orders to men who won’t follow them, and I can’t gain their respect until—”

“You can’t gain their respect,” said Pellaeon firmly. “End of sentence.”

Thrawn blinked rapidly and turned his face away; Pellaeon could see his reflection as he glared out the viewport.

“But they follow _my_ orders,” Pellaeon continued, his voice softer now. “And _I_ am willing to follow yours. Be my consultant; work with me, lend me your tactical advice, and you will have the entire Galactic Empire at your disposal whether they want to follow you or not. It doesn't matter if we agree on who you used to be; what matters is that we know who you are now, your strengths and your weaknesses, and we can come to an agreement on how best to utilize them. Yes?”

There was no answer; not immediately. Thrawn’s breathing was tightly controlled, his arm stiff and self-conscious against Pellaeon’s. After a long moment, without any change in his breathing pattern or posture, he lifted a hand and delicately wiped his eyes.

“Parck gave you something,” he said quietly, his voice rough. Pellaeon’s gut twisted; he didn’t move away but didn’t answer, either. “A neurotoxin?” Thrawn asked, still staring out the viewport.

Pellaeon hesitated, considered a lie. He could feel the capsule burning a hole in his pocket.

“You haven’t decided whether to use it yet,” Thrawn said, his voice barely audible. “But you claim you’ll follow my orders? Accept my advice?”

Heart thumping, Pellaeon looked away. Beside him, Thrawn was quickly regaining his composure; he turned away from the viewport and glanced briefly at Pellaeon, not bothering to hide the evidence of emotion on his face.

“What does it do?” he asked evenly. 

Pellaeon waited for three heartbeats before answering. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. “It erases your memories,” he said reluctantly.

“My memory downloads?” asked Thrawn at once, as if he’d been prepared for this answer. “Or all my memories, including this last year?”

Pellaeon sucked in a breath and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “It wasn’t clear.”

Thrawn's face was unreadable. "That's wise," he said eventually, voice flat. "Leave my useful traits intact, take away my identity issues..."

Pellaeon couldn't bear to hear him justify it. He gathered his courage, refusing to let himself think about the decision for too long; before Thrawn could go on making excuses for Parck, for _him_ , he shoved his hand in his pocket and procured the capsule. He held it out to Thrawn, the neurotoxin an ugly black wart in the center of his palm.

“Take it,” he said, teeth clenched.

“I trust you,” Thrawn said, making no move to take it from him. His face was tight.

“It’s yours,” Pellaeon insisted. “Destroy it. I can’t have you worrying that I might—”

“Gilad,” said Thrawn, his eyes glittering dangerously. Pellaeon fell silent; he could feel his palm sweating, so he pulled his sleeve over his other hand and transferred the neurotoxin there to prevent the moisture from breaking down the capsule’s shell. A glance down showed him that Thrawn’s fingers were clenched in the fabric of his trousers so tightly that his knuckles were turning white; sweat dampened the material, turning it from white to gray. Pellaeon wanted the capsule gone; he wanted it incinerated, wanted to never see it again, wanted it destroyed as soon as possible. He felt like he might weep with his sudden desperation to see it gone.

“I trust you,” Thrawn said quietly, his emphasis subtly different now, the tone of his sentence all wrong. 

_I trust you,_ he said. With his heart pulsing in his ears, Pellaeon took the capsule back, realizing why Thrawn's hands were clenched in his uniform, why his posture had gone rigid, why the strain in his eyes seemed ten times worse than before. Those were gestures of confusion, conflict, temptation — not fear; it would be so much easier for everyone, Pellaeon thought, if the clone kept all his skills intact but lost the memories, if he no longer remembered who he'd been before Rukh's blade found his heart. Easier for _everyone_ , a fact he'd never appreciated before now. He recognized those words for what they really meant:

 _I don’t trust myself,_ the clone was saying. Even now, his eyes flicked toward the capsule; how long had he been craving a way out, a method to escape his year of torment, without Pellaeon knowing? And if it made things easier for everyone...

Easier did not always mean right; he'd learned that long before he ever met the Grand Admiral, and his time with Thrawn had only served to solidify the lesson. Heart pounding, Pellaeon stood without a word, disposed of the capsule in the fresher with the door open so Thrawn could see him flushing it. He pretended not to hear the clone's hitching breaths when he returned, pretended not to notice the shame and gratitude mixed together on his face.

He pulled Thrawn close to him, let him bury his face in Pellaeon's shoulder.

"Breathe," he said. "I'm here."


	19. Chapter 19

**Epilogue**

There was no standard uniform for a military advisor; when Thrawn next appeared on the bridge, he did so in a set of plain black clothes Pellaeon had never seen before — sharp and professional and nondescript, reminiscent of the Imperial gunner uniform and the Chiss warrior tunics at the same time. It was a change that caught the attention of every officer on the bridge; for the first time in more than a month, they looked up as Thrawn walked by. 

Pellaeon watched him speak with the captain — polite, deferential, both of them treating the other with distance and respect. He watched Captain Keller place a friendly hand on Thrawn’s arm, watched Thrawn bear it for ten seconds before pulling away with natural-looking casualness. He lasted an hour in the center of the bridge before he made his way gracefully to the bulkhead and stood with his back against it, the strain in his eyes visible only to Pellaeon. 

It was progress, Pellaeon thought. A weight lifted from his chest.

This would work. 

* * *

The message from Parck was brief, professional: He was pleased to hear of Thrawn’s new position in the Imperial Navy, hoped to work together with Pellaeon again in the near future, was glad to know that Pellaeon had not cut ties with the New Republic.

There was a war coming, he reminded Pellaeon as Thrawn looked on from the other side of the holoprojector. They needed all the allies they could get.

Pellaeon lifted his eyes, saw Thrawn watching him, and shared a grim smile. 

* * *

He was certain Thrawn was asleep by now; they’d gone to bed together, Pellaeon leaning his back against the bulkhead as he read through data reports, Thrawn curling up alongside him with his head in Pellaeon’s lap and his arm slung over his thighs. For nearly an hour, Thrawn had been silent; his breathing was deep and even, his eyes gently closed; the only sign of movement was Pellaeon’s fingers combing through Thrawn’s hair. 

And then there was a shift. Thrawn turned his head, eyes open and half-lidded, Pellaeon’s fingertips scraping briefly against his cheekbone.

“What did you want to tell me?” Thrawn murmured.

Pellaeon stared down at him, mind stuttering. He’d invited Thrawn back to his quarters for a reason, it was true — but when they’d arrived here, Thrawn had shucked off his uniform and laid down on Pellaeon’s bed in nothing but his shirt, as if this right here —  this shy, awkward, somehow natural intimacy — was the only reason he’d come. It had been too easy to go along with that, to leave the box of datacards for another day.

He should have known Thrawn was only biding his time. He was studying Pellaeon now, and must have seen the decision on his face before Pellaeon even realized what it was, because without a word, Thrawn rolled away from him, allowing Pellaeon to stand.

He retrieved the box in silence. It was locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, and it felt almost wrong to take it out again; he carried it into the bedroom in both hands, reverently, like an acolyte carries something consecrated by his god.

He found Thrawn propped up on one arm in bed, waiting for him, eyes curious and alert.

“It’s your art collection,” Pellaeon said. He stopped at the side of the bed, not quite close enough to hand the little wooden box over. “I found it in your command room after you died. I’ve...been keeping it for you.”

 _From you,_ a voice whispered in his head. 

Thrawn’s eyes shifted from Pellaeon’s face to his hands. He reached for the box slowly, almost hesitantly. When Pellaeon handed it over, Thrawn took it and moved backward until his back was up against the wall, his knees curling up to his chest almost protectively, like an animal guarding its food from a rival beast. He traced the pattern on the wood before he opened it, gazing down into the box with an expression Pellaeon wished he couldn’t read. 

“It didn’t feel right,” Pellaeon heard himself confess, his voice strangled. “To let someone else see it. To let you into his command room, his quarters. I didn’t want you to see…”

He came back to his senses, cut himself off with an ugly flush of shame rising to his cheeks. He couldn't finish that sentence. Across from him, Thrawn’s eyes flicked over the rows of datacards before he closed the box with a click.

“I left the bed unmade,” he murmured, staring at a point near Pellaeon’s feet. “I was … preoccupied. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten until I opened the door and saw the state of it. I thought at first you must have slept in it yourself, and then I realized … I simply didn’t remember.”

Pellaeon swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He could see muted embarrassment on Thrawn’s face, a hint of chagrin, and the sight of it brought more relief than guilt. He’d been certain Thrawn would be embarrassed by the slip; he’d been right. But he hadn’t taken the additional complexity of memory downloads — of memory _editing_ — into account, hadn’t realized until recently how these slips might affect a clone.

“Exactly,” he said, shoulders slumping.

The barrier between them, thick and invisible, seemed to lighten a little at first, and then, as Thrawn ran his thumb over the wooden box, it seemed to dissolve. Pellaeon sat on the edge of the bed, inched closer to Thrawn, felt another surge of relief when Thrawn curled up against him once again. He clutched the box of datacards in one hand, the edge of it poking dully against Pellaeon’s thigh. 

With his face buried in Pellaeon’s lap, Thrawn murmured, “Eleven years seems longer than it once was. I've said you don't look at me the way you used to, and it's true. But of course it's true. You’ve changed.”

Pellaeon ran his hand gently up and down Thrawn’s arm, the motion rhythmic and soothing. He watched blue fingers clench tightly around the wooden box, like a child clinging to a comfort object, refusing to let it go. He took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh — half sad, half content — and felt Thrawn sigh too, relaxing against him so deeply that they felt like one and the same.

Pellaeon closed his eyes, ran his fingers over a year-old scar on Thrawn’s shoulder.

“You’ve changed, too,” he said.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shedding Tears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115162) by [MissKitsune08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKitsune08/pseuds/MissKitsune08)




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